Being A Writer Now Is About So

She Feels And She Cries. It Is To Be Admired.

I Close My Eyes And I Take A Deep Breath And I Think About My Life And How I Ended Up This Way. I Think About The Ruin, Devastation And Wreckage I Have Caused To Myself And To Others. I Think About Self-hatred And Self-loathing. I Think About How And Why And What Happened And The Thoughts Come Easily, But The Answers Don't.

Being An Unpublished Novelist Has About As Much Social Acceptability As Being A Shopping Bag Lady.

Sometimes Skulls Are Thick. Sometimes Hearts Are Vacant. Sometimes Words Don't Work.

The Past Doesn't Matter. People Cling To It Because It Allows Them To Ignore The Present.