Those essays didn’t start out as anything ambitious, either. At their core, they’re just primal screams.
Going home it always bitter sweet. As I crossed into my home county, I felt the anxiety settling in. I was home, and that was only comforting until it suddenly wasn’t.
Last night, I enjoyed a short story by one of my favorite authors: “The Last Question”, by Isaac Asimov. I’ve long admired his work, but when someone told me that he’d written a brilliant short story that deals with the same topic as a story I’m currently working on, I had to check it out.
I helped make a magazine. It’s one of those small, local magazines that you see sitting in piles at a cafe or placed on lending library shelves. We’ve got a team numbering in the single digits. I’m here to sell it to you, but I don’t really feel like playing the salesman. Here’s the deal: […]
Tonight, I went to a concert. The kind of music doesn’t really matter for the purpose of this story, but it’s the kind of music that speaks to my soul. I don’t believe such a thing exists, but that choice of words still works for me. Let me tell you why.
Who would believe my stories about the south?
I bet many of you wouldn’t. I could write an entire memoir of horror stories, and most people would find it more believable if I filled them with imaginary demons.