Fiction is work. More work than it ought to be. The question then, is why is this so? Why the difficulties? For those who excel at a particular endeavor, for those who have a particular knack or propensity to engage in something successfully, why would it still be a struggle? Quite simply, in my case at least, it is because I am forcing something upon myself. I am imposing a standard model on what I want to do and attempting to write within its confines. Punk is what has brought this to light in my mind. It is what is allowing me to see that the true essence of who I am is born not in the contrived stories I pain over in order to please, but instead in the rambling essays that I choose to write as a means to air my grievances. Now I see that this fluid exposition of my being, in how I pour my every fiber into the words that are placed on the page, has to be translated to the fiction I create. I must dispense with creative control and allow for creative expression. I have a voice, I have a particular point of view, and regardless of its validity or intelligence I am going to scream it until your eardrums burst and you choose to thrash me with your belt. Because fuck you. And fuck me. But mostly you. I want, and always have wanted freedom. Freedom from myself, my self having been molded into a prison by the others, and now finally giving way to the beauty of irreverence. Others find genius in science, or music, or art. I find genius in writing. I am blinded by writing. Writing is my muse, my Aphrodite, my everything. I will never concede that there is anything more impactful, more profound, more true, than what writing is. Because writing is mine, and I am human and selfish, and what I know and adore is all that matters. No need to elaborate or elucidate. If you can’t read between the lines then you don’t belong. If you don’t understand that reading between the lines is actually feeling, well now I’m explaining. This is just the beginning. I want more, and I will have more, and if others won’t have it now then it’ll be had later, even if I’m dead. I don’t know what I’m doing. I only know that this is what I need.

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For the Intermittent Writer


Short books about albums. Published by Bloomsbury.

The Wink

This Week in Kink

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