Truthfulness Itself Is Almost Medication, Even When

I Think Writers Tend To Be Experience Junkies, And I Think They Also Tend To Want To Be On The Outside Looking In.

I Felt A Bottomless Sadness. So Completely Alone. Like One Of My Stuffed Animals At Home That I Was Too Old For Now, That Sat On The Shelf In My Closet, Mashed Against The Back Wall.

When I First Thought Of Being A Writer I Had Visions Of Stacks Of Books In Stores With My Name On Them, That Sort Of Thing. But I Never Imagined This Would Be The Reaction.

Other People Sound Flat To My Ear; Their Words Just Hang In The Air. But When My Mother Says Something, The Ends Curl.

I Don't Really Think Of My Blog As A Real Blog. It's A Lame Blog. It's More Like My When-the-mood-strikes Update, Or Smoke Signal.