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August 11, 2003
I don’t think I could ever be a serious writer, as it’s just too damn hard. Not as to time, but as to self-exploration. Hell, my life as I know it has never been that interesting. Besides, the good stuff, the really “good” stuff comes from racking the soul over the coals, revisiting that deep, dark, dank, whatever is inside you that hurts, cries, dies, seeks, covets, fears, loathes, seduces, perplexes; and the really good, prolific writers can articulate all that into something that everyone understands and can relate to. Shit. I’m too busy living it to write about it.