Most writers have had this thought at some point in their life. Many, more than once. An unlucky few - let's not go there today. You just play the hand your dealt, as best you can.

Nothing should make you regret your life choices more than the thought of being stuck for eternity with other people like yourself. My take on Sartre's "No Exit".

When I started writing, I pondered the ending - Thomas, or Hemmingway? Forced to focus elsewhere, those thoughts faded away. Resume, they come back. But, which is the cause - which the effect?

A little historical poetic license. Anyway. Getting closer to the finish line on this weird HBM journal. Maybe these virtual scraps of paper will survive as hers did.

Embarrassingly bad? Yep. But this poem (full text in my blog) marked the transition from my mostly winging it with luck and talent to really putting in the effort on writing. And for that it is my favorite.

Find ALL the layers - you get a cookie. If I wanted to go "there", I can. I mastered dark, depressing stream-of-consciousness writing. In a journal for over 12 years. TY BLS! HBM? Rainbows, flowers and bunnies.

{B} As I approach a year of these stupid things - I have a strange, dark secret to share. I have been fantasizing about my characters coming to life - just so I can murder them. I am not well.

My thoughts are passing smiles, Owed a fleeting smirk or glance; A moment of airy nothing, An interlude along my way. But if I stop to chat with them, Long enough to catch their name; I'll regret the chance encounter, On walks inside my head.

I have been writing since - well, since I could write. But only twice have I been motivated to write poetry. And? I believe this is an accurate assessment of me. My artistic "talents". And their fate.

Pain. My academic advisor in college was adamant I was born to be a writer. He arranged for me to attend the premiere of The Lay of the Land in Pittsburgh and meet with Mel Shapiro and Lee Grant. It did not go well.

Sometimes I need to go with what amuses me. And? This amuses me. It's probably also an adequate representation of what abject failure as a human-shaped object looks like on every level imaginable. But ... I'm still amused.

THIS is the lie I've told myself - all my life. But. I know nobody cares about my thoughts. And that my concept of humor sucks. Unfortunately. This is who I am. So. I've gone to bed many a night. Happy. Not to wake up.

I associate with Danny. But. Nobody would ever call me touchy-feely. Anyway. Isn't it funny, when a writer wants a character to go nuts - they make that character a writer? Maybe ... we have a limit for feeling like a joke.