Then there’s writing. I’ve been doing the same thing for many years. I want to do something else. Not something less or different, but something else. I think I know what that is, but it’s hard – not in terms of what it will demand, but it because it means upending this velvet groove. On one hand I like the idea of detonating everything, moving to Arizona and writing detective novels set in 1947 Minneapolis. On the other hand that’s not going to happen tomorrow or next month or next year. And what if I find myself sitting in a lawn chair staring at the desert, the radio chattering in the background, lemonade in my hand, thinking: eh. I’ll write tomorrow.
I have written a lot, anyway. What’s one day.
Well, it’s all you have, and they do add up.
"I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us...We need the books that affect us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside of us.
"How could you, Francis. How could you. You heartless bastard." -Ilyka
"Death to the Republic of Dork! All hail the Geek Empire!"
"It's kind of like Lileks on electro-shock treatments that aren't quite working."-steve the llama butcher
email the emperor:
unconqured -at- gmail.com
(bonus points for anyone that can guess the literary referance in which "unconqured" and "I" figure prominently)
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