Posts tagged: writing

“Imperfection is the language of art” (and what lays behind all good writing)

– Paul Theroux, ‘Hotel Honolulu’
In my own experience, some of the best storytellers have not been people who call themselves writers or artists — and all the snooty connotations that goes along with those labels — no, the best storytellers I have known were normal, everyday people telling interesting stories from normal, everyday events.

“Fueled by amphetamines, the hard bebop jazz of the era and his spontaneous prose style….”

– The Typewriter (in the 21st Century)

Dictionary pet peeve: “windowsill”

Anyone who spends time with the written word knows how valuable it is to have a good set of dictionaries. Webster’s Unabridged, you failed. I’ll be sticking with my American Heritage dictionary from here on out.

An appliance no kitchen should be without

An appliance no kitchen should be without

I’ve grown accustomed to writing while standing, especially when working at the typewriter. At the cabin, the only place to do that is at the kitchen counter. Works out nicely. I’ve got a nice view of the small meadow outside the window.

Twitter / Overheard Newsroom

Veteran reporter: “Treat your notebook like you would your underwear kid — no one else should see it and don’t share it.”
via Twitter / Overheard Newsroom: Veteran reporter: “Treat y ….

I was attacked by a hairy wolf spider thing

while hiking today. It jumped on my face and landed on the top edge of my glasses as I was ducking under some fallen branches. In a panicked reflex, freaked out action, I smacked myself in the face and broke my glasses. Good thing I had some duct tape to do a quick field repair.
Now [...]


The dogs of hypocrisy constantly nipping at my heels, testing my philosophy. No time to think. Gotta keep moving. MOVE.


Too many years have passed with too many distractions. I no longer recall the names and places and feelings and thoughts and wasted days.
But it’s all the same.


His life as a can of spam was a sham. All these years, his wife had been in love with the other white meat.

Sun-burned skin

flaking off like little mini barbecued potato chips, falling, delicately drifting, floating down to the hotel carpet for little carpet mites to feast upon.

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