This is what I go through by pretending to be a journalist. Got a laptop that just shrivels my warriors every time I type in bed. I think sitting at a desk is the worst place for ideas to cultivate, so I’ll risk it… I find myself always wavering with vocabulary, keeping a conscious balance between direct and elaborate.  Sword in hand, I battle red and green under-linings until the voice in my head is crisp and accurately presented. I know that the true power is in the edits, but the passion is in the draft. So once I’ve laid out a complete three sentences there’s no turning back. Even when I know my body of work has embarked on a drunken misdirection from my initial contentions, I go ahead and type away. “Maybe I’ll come back to it later and it’ll be better”. But it never is… Well not “never never” but, practically never… If I wrote a book on sleep it would be titled “I learned all about sleep…By not getting it”, or better yet, “Writing… and Working 40 hours a week” by Marvin Ryles. Today I didn’t rest well, but my eyes crimson for many reasons, after all, this is Seattle. Four hours of sleep before work you say? No problem… coffee. I look at eight hours of sleep the same way I look at polyamory: A divine idea that I could never be comfortable with…  I strive to be rough but well polished, radiant and mysterious, but I guess in this line of work there is no control over that. “Is criticizing a group of people worth the lesson it will teach others?” Yes. “Is criticizing a group of people worth losing a friend over?” No. So what is really worth anything? Being a writer helps to find that balance, and knowing when to tip the scale is the beauty of it all.

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