Two Weeks

Austin, hikes, and manuscript shit

Monday morning blues they call it. More like life's hangover when you don't drink.

61 degrees in August. Low of 37. Even the weather's having an identity crisis. Switching to overtime with no time. Makes zero sense, but nothing does at forty one.

Been dark for two weeks. Not dead. Living. Edits and summer's relentless bullshit.

Hit 1000 subscribers. Still baffles me. Why anyone reads this trainwreck.

You know that voice? The one with every writing guru screaming SHOW UP DAILY. It gets louder. Meaner. More convinced you're a fraud. (shut the fuck up voice)

The MFA makes it worse. Doesn't cure imposter syndrome, amplifies it. You're different than everyone else. Not smarter. Just different.They want perfect boxes for modern literature. Mold you to teach adjunct classes. Play academic.

But you don't want to teach or write something like everything. (Though you'd make a badass adjunct and piss people off.)

Anyhow…sometimes not writing is part of the process. Need to live enough life to have something worth writing. Two weeks of chaos gave me some clarity.

And you know what? Everything that matters surfaces when the noise dies down.