Ramblings on revision

I am revising a story about two men traveling to the coast in search of a magical cure to the disease killing one of them. In this story the forest is alive: a tangled character that is supposed to represent the dark and gnarly parts of their present situation but also the lush and blooming parts of their past.

3 for practice.

I am writing a short story nobody will ever read about harsh winter blizzards, lacquered Matryoshka dolls, and a man who weaves trauma out of men’s bodies.

The Antidote: Karen Russell

Bits that I loved, some small scattered thoughts about the novel as a whole.

4 seasons

I am convinced it is the only thing we truly own. It is the thing we make for ourselves with each new hour and, when I gaze upon that, when I travel my fingers across its ragged edges, it is always begging or pleading. It demands attention. Someone to need it. To love it. To own it.

Nothing left to say

in America you can suffer a mortal wound on a Wednesday afternoon and be expected back to work after lunch.

Thoughts on a failed short story: part two

Sam+

Cause I was lonely here and it's lonely still In the rugged country where the weeds grow fierce Quicker than the crop I keep running from In this rugged country.

Tops from a top

The top things I've consumed this year, since that's what this newsletter was originally about.

on writing a short story again and again and again and again

For a latest story (that I started with the title Drought) I worked on this board, so what follows is some rambles about the different parts of the board and what my thinking was attaching/creating them.

Kameron+

At night Kameron would pull up outside my house, leave his truck running, text me, and wait for me to crawl out the second-story window.

Issac+

You thought about rain and swaying trees; the way the world looks right after a storm: gray and slightly shaken, but still whole.

Louis+

At night we’d hang out at the park behind his house, drinking IPAs and tossing rocks at the tennis court fencing until he got bored and went home to have sex.

Jordan or a musing on friendship and relationships

In the summer we drive around, listening to Remember Sports, and searching for a reasonably priced second-hand keyboard so you can pick up a new hobby. Here, the summers stretch on for far too long: the bare blue sky hanging over our heads with quiet contempt.

plants and songs

At 32, I’ve been spending more time buying and caring for plants. I’ve got 30+ or so scattered around my house now, and I’ll probably grab more as these start to die or wilt or move on to the next cycle of their lives.

Thoughts on a failed story: Big Bend

Part one, because this story is pretty long.

An assortment of thoughts on recent consumptions

Nothing substantial, carry on

Over drinks - V2

Over hazy IPAs that tasted like too much experimentation, I told him about the first and second men I ever loved.

Over drinks - V1

Over drinks, I told you about the first and second men I ever loved. How the first broke my world open and the second pieced it back together.

Dispatches from weeks 5 - 7 of a writing workshop.

I’ve been using this newsletter/blog/whatever you might call it less and less lately, primarily because I’m devoting all of my writing energy to the writing course I’m taking. Anyway, here’s what the last few weeks have looked like.

Four weeks of a writing course

I started a 10-week writing course a few weeks ago. Joining a writing class is something I’ve been wanting to do for a while. I had high hopes of finding something in Austin that met in person, but honestly, there weren’t many good options.

4 for 4

I spend the early summer watching reruns of King of the Hill and swimming in other people’s pools. In the afternoon, the sun hangs around forever, baking everything in an endless wave of heat and dust and shame. I try and keep cool by hanging out inside or drinking bad beers at bars with funky aesthetics and custom-crafted illustrations for their beer cans.

Three snippets

real, fake, and real again.

4 for a sleepless night/morning

At night I dream of returning home from somewhere foreign. I’m not sure where I am: Seattle or Portland, the whole thing’s fuzzy. In this dream I am running from someone. I am all big conversations and repressed feelings.

hi again

In therapy we talk about endings and beginnings, read short stories that I’ve written, and ponder over when I’ll eventually stop coming. We are working towards a final project: a bit of writing in which I envision four variations of my self, split across the timelines, all meeting together for one conversation.

Tuesday

In the morning, wrapped in blankets and the warm safety of each other you ask me to marry you and, sheepishly I agree. This is not a proposal, at least in the traditional sense, but instead a conviction or admission of feeling.