And so, the mysteries of writing reveals itself. It was always silent. It was always nothing. It was always just a spot in the dark.
Riding an endorphin rush of new followers and likes on twitter. Every time the phone lights up I get a new bump. Am I writing, maybe. But a lot of it is under 240 characters. Is this the social media drug they warned us of? Is this why even the creators of twitter are known … Continue reading 4:17 A.M.
Recently I got a password alert from Google. Someone had compromised one of my accounts. I found Huckberry.com and discovered I had created an account there. Why, when, I don’t know. It must have been a time of aspirational thinking if they can sell a work shirt for $128. Shoes. Denim. Coats. Everything is of … Continue reading Huckberry.com: The artifice of the working man.
But Margaret Atwood told me I should just write, in a YouTube video ad. Somehow cars became words. She said write, so I did. Ugggggggggggg. And the need to agonize over every phrase, and the need to have a conjunction, a pause, a break; something other than just words, and punctuation. Grrrrrrrrrrrrr. Just stop. Words … Continue reading Oh damn, it was just too easy to stop
So I write. Some times in notes. Sometimes here. But a great many remain in the unfinished, unpublishable category of things. Drafts. Digital vapour that so easily finds the delete key. But even then, it's not the whole truth. Truth is many remain in my mind. A script of the day. The running dialogue of … Continue reading Stacks and stacks of drafts, the delete key is not far away
7:37 a.m. Alarm sounds. The title of the alarm is "get shit done". I hit snooze once. Up just before second run. Washroom, make coffee, brush teeth. I’m sitting before my computer by 8:03. Now what. 8:12 a.m. Coffee machine beeps : time for first coffee and cigarette. I brew 10 cups of coffee each … Continue reading Chronicles of a day – April 4
I like to think of myself as creative. Maybe sometimes think artistic. It's creative thinking. I have done things, achieved great heights, produced something to be proud of; in my mind. The harsh truth: it's too much work to make it real. Art without working is an empty place. It doesn't exist. Outside my mind … Continue reading The artist, not the art