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My Fucking Feelings
New book, new lenses, and living in the eye of the tornado
But I still feel guilty when I write for me. Everyone journals though, right? I just use a browser and hit post when I’m done. It’s my therapy. Anyway, I’m at the same coffee shop, same time, same table, and my same left leg falling asleep as I punch keys. I usually stick to one coffee shop for a few years. Right now it’s a Blue Bottle in Los Feliz, California. I have to sit at the same table I do every morning or nothing comes out. The power of daily routines. I write everything here, including my books. I just turned in the first draft of my third one which is set to come out late 2020. Ish.
Writing is a strange thing. You love it you hate it. You mostly hate it. But if you’re a writer, you can’t escape it. You have to accept it as a part of you, like the bicycle scar on your shin that never healed, or your words will never ring. They will just be scattered letters tossed on a very heavy page. They won’t come to life and dance. Writing isn’t something you do. It’s who you are. If you are a writer, you don’t have a choice but to write. If you don’t, you won’t be able to breathe. Your kite will never fly. You will just be running. Away from yourself.
It felt like yesterday I turned in the first draft of my last book. Now I’m about to take my second pass at a new book, Single. On…
