I have not written a real blog post in over a year. That was on another version of this site at another point in my writing life. Then (June 2013) I was marketing a novel no one wanted. Now, I’m writing a novel no one has read. I hope the “not read” part changes soon. It will, I believe, see it’s way out into the world sometime this year. I imagine I’ll mention it here.
I imagine I’ll mention many things here. I’ll mention all the things. Writing and politics and race and movies and food and booze and friends and family and that dark little spot inside always threatening to collapse me into a marble. A pea. A pinpoint.
The writing keeps me expanding. The reading keeps me expanding.
I so prefer living outside of myself. In all the ways that can be done. Through literature. Movies. Fantasy. Intellect. Through reading someone else’s words and allowing yourself to see through the warps of their individual experiences. We are all so tiny. And mortal. We need each other to live beyond the confinements of our minds and bodies. Does that sound pretentious? Okay. That’s okay. I still think it’s true.