Better Late Than…

Forgive me, this is a day late, but I’m almost back up to speed.

Enjoy below:

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Stand Up Guy

 

I’m not a fan of autobiography. As a genre I suspect it has fallen the way of reality television. We, as a culture, read these books not for insight into this person’s or that person’s craft. We do it so that we can spy on their possessions, be titillated by their encounters with other famous people.

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V Is For Valerie

I am addicted to stories. I need them.

The daily monotony and step by step that takes me back and forth to work, takes me to the supermarket, takes me to washing up and changing the bin isn’t enough. The process by which I robotically act these tasks comes from a mechanical part of me. Sometimes I’m able to zoom out and appraise the task; I can appreciate what I can do and how good I’ve become at it. In my experience this type of reflection comes just before a fall. It doesn’t work well to celebrate one’s prowess too much.

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Great Vine

What makes a story? A beginning, middle, and end? Introduction, conflict, and resolution? Well, yes. Of course. But stories don’t always look like that. Sometimes the details are implied or even, the audience or reader just sort of forgives you the detail. What was the big disaster that led to the desperate landscape of Cormac McCarthy’s The Road? It was never specified.

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Post-Modern Life.

Post Modern. It’s a phrase most of us know in our spines. It’s like a furniture advert jingle or the basic layout of the McDonald’s menu. Sometimes I think I know exactly what it means and sometimes I have no idea why it even exists.

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The Imagination Of Art

Writing is long process. Most of it is hidden inside of you until, at the very last moment, you sit down and whatever it is that you’ve been thinking about rushes out of your fingers.

Then you edit.

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