:: blame the extended gestation.... ::

:: Thursday, May 13, 2004 ::

The wind had died down. It had been windy all day, the kind of wind that reminds you how alive the world is. Ladies in short skirts kind of windy. Now he sat in his room, the window half cracked open, waiting, listening. He didn't know what he was waiting for, or what he was listening for, he just was. He was learning how to just live. He wanted to learn how to make all the little things in his life fade away, shrink down to picture book size. He wanted to learn to write, but first he would have to learn to live. Every writer has a story they take with them, scene or character that they live out in their day to day life. His story wasn't good enough yet. Black eyes, blue balls, descriptive words, descriptive life. Somebody would need to write something quickly. The stories we tell ourselves, they have to improve. You have to get better at telling your own life story. If you don't then what is the point of living. You live until you die so all the in between better start getting wittier, funnier, smarter, you have to fill up your life with lots of truth.

:: Jim Nichols 5/13/2004 05:18:00 PM [+] ::
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