Sometimes I just don’t fucking know.
What am I doing? It feels like I am absolutely spinning in place. An old-ass ballerina doing fouetté turns on busted Capezio pointe shoes.
Yeah. Dance reference. Just go with it.
I was on pause for a minute and stopped jumping on here and chatting. Pauses happen when you have a brain that sometimes lies to you. Dirty, filthy, bloody brains. Can’t live with ’em, can’t scoop them out with chopsticks.
A minute in the corner is sometimes necessary if you ever plan to come back swinging. Harold Pinter is my cut man.
Yeah. Dorky playwright and boxing reference. Again, just go with it.
One of the toughest parts about being an actor is when you’re not acting. And other people are. And you know you should be. But, at least you’re home to make Death Star shaped peanut butter and jellies. And that’s what you keep telling yourself in the dark under the covers.
And that’s good. Because when you’re out from under the covers, things like chocolate stouts happen. Which can be a problem.
But truly. There’s other good things. When you’re a writer, (or someone who writes, I still buckle under the label, too heavy a crown) even if you spend the night with Lego and spelling words, you still have an escape.
I’ve been pushing at that particular metal hatch. Trying to get words. As many as I can. Usually scratching and clawing for every syllable. Nothing formal. No where to go with it. So, scary as it it, to keep the words from forming a mutiny at my place, I just might go here with them.
My plan is to post the short story I’m currently battling here. In pieces, as a series. Hopefully. Maybe. Imminent. Or sometime. Really. Unless, I lose said words battle. But I’m scrappy.
So, eyes akimbo.
Dark Yarns coming soon…