I went to a writing workshop in late February and it really fucked with my idea of being a writer. Not only was it just…weird, but also, I had spent so long telling myself that I’d be happy around other writers, writing, and when I finally got there (or so, that’s where I thought this conference was), I was emphatically wrong. I cried in the parking lot and left the
So, about a year ago, I decided to move to Madrid. I bought a one-way plane ticket and told myself that I’d go live the life of a struggling writer, getting by on late nights with fleeting friends and really cheap wine. I’d perfect my Spanish by immersing myself in Spanish culture and dedicate six months or so to finishing my novel. I’d be writing and living on a budget.
Please forgive me, for I have sinned. @ Jesus, @ you all, @ myself, @ everyone who has supported my writing and/or this blog. I’m sorry, y’all. I haven’t written for months now and I know: I am the worst for it. Please forgive me. BUT. I’ve got a lot of valid reasons. To name a few: For starters, I’ve been traveling somewhere about every two weeks (and I’d be willing to
Unlike most writers, I have a lot of trouble writing when I’m sad. I feel like, more often than not, artists are good at pushing out content when they’re upset because writing about something means not only constraining it to words, but also giving it away to someone else. Since experiences and feelings are by default inexplicable—after all, no explanation of an experience or feeling can measure up to the