I am writing this very earnest piece.
I want to connect to you.
Fuck that.
I need to connect with you.
I am writing this about a squirrel.
And a banana.
The hungry squirrel is always doing things for his family but this one time he finds a banana and he eats the banana including the skin and then gets sick and dies as he scurries back to his home in the woods.
Or maybe its a home in an alcove. I can't picture it because these people around me are yapping and laughing and living.
I have this insane urge to have someone read something I write and immediately get it, get me.
Or maybe I just want someone to tell me it's all been done, that I'm nothing, that all I can ever aspire to is to get published in my friend's journal and it will close shop within days, months if I'm really lucky.
I am a good guy. I hate the fourth wall. My name is Lucas and I live on the fourth floor. I don't live upstairs from you. All the other tenants have real jobs and make good money and probably think "Fictionaut" and "Argonaut" are related.
I have published approximately 100 pieces (some flash and some a bit longer) in various print and electronic journals over the past eight years. Some killed me to write. Some I think about every day and damn if I don't feel good about having written them. Yet nothing even remotely like that is in me anymore. The idea of writing an actual story feels laughably impossible.
I can't take it bird by bird because I have neither.
I want to write something though at some point in life. I am only 38. Perhaps I will do this before I die, probably in my 50's, if I'm lucky in my sleep.
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I get it. And that really, really terrifies me.
fave because I said that. (see above)
this is the most honest thing I've read here.
Yes, naked honesty. Excuse the cliche, but you have a real gift for lighting candles in the darkness. You're the kind of writer that makes me wish I could fund some writers. Fav.