I’m in the race. The everyday race. I run to create the things I imagine. To finish them. It never works, there’s always one more to write. Then it’s time for the road again.
This has an effect. I stretch out stays at houses, apartments, homes of friends. I think there, in a haven, I’ll finally catch up. I fail. Always one more.
Why is this? In large part, my writing is a chronicle of my life. To record one’s life is a mathematic impossibility.
Filtering helps. Not every event is worth keeping. Not every thought is a conversation. But that’s the part I’m good at.
What else can I do? How can I write about my adventures, without hitting pause on living them? Well, a change in style might help.
I need to get out of the haven and move. And I want to tell the story. So I have to tell it fast. Quick, sharp, straight: a stiletto.
I have to out-Hemingway Ernest.