And fall semester I'm registered for the class that he claims proves this point--Creative Non-Fiction.
I suspect the choking cathartic emissions that plague the future will drown October, Novemeber and December in throat snot. The only thing I dread is the assurance that this sort of writing activity, while temporarily freeing, is not, in fact, theraputic. So what? What is the use?
What is a glowing moment in a day: teaching and encouraging teenagers to not be afraid of their pens.
In 48 hours I should be standing at the base of Nebo having summited four hours earlier.
Who do you believe that you are? Does what you do clarify that for you? Is what they call you part of that definition?
I write. I climb. I answer to more names than a person should.
My stories won't lift anyone. They just confirm that people are cruel and this world is not fair. If anything that means what I have to say is just affirmations of the truth.
Life hurts. And yes, that is scary.