“When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth.” — Kurt Vonnegut
When I write, I feel like a Coin Star machine. Ideas pour into my chute like a collection of coins, with pocket lint and maybe a button or two. The ideas spill in as the universe tilts its jar of stuff, and I sort it out, organize, arrange it all into a collated amount that’s easier to understand. $27.13 is equivalent to Prosey 8-4-12, a practice piece for my Monday night class. $7.89 is my silly Noncation journal. $6.66 is the blurb about the “fallen angel” crap. $69 is a piece I have saved with a password, and will probably never make public because I’m too embarrassed to publish such naughty things. Writing, you see, is my way of taking cold, hard pieces of life and trading them for soft, convenient slips, with color and worth.