Looking back, my writing journey started with a crayon drawing of a robotic dog with laser eyes. My teachers have always told me I was “good” at writing, even though I believed otherwise, and I have a faint memory of my kindergarten teacher telling me how much she enjoyed my poem Metal Dog because I used the word “invincible”.
I only realized that I genuinely enjoyed writing when I took a creative writing class my senior year in college. Not very original, but that’s the truth. I wrote three shitty stories, which were required for the class, but after it…
There is no such thing as a writer
In the same way there is a burger flipper
Or a construction worker.
The writer is not someone who shows up
To perform their task,
The ethereal task of writing,
For there are burgers needing to be slapped on the grill,
There are blueprints of buildings needing to be materialized,
But the writer has no writing to write.
There is nothing that needs to be written.
The writer is a human who goes about their life
Much in the same way as everyone else.
They rise, they fall, they live, they experience.
There are people all around the world who claim to possess an in-depth knowledge of what God is thinking and subsequently claim to know which direction humanity should head in. They use this to justify many opinions and judgments about human morality and institutions. We needn’t look further than the language we use when discussing God to confirm this to be true. We say “God loves”, “God hates”, “God weeps”, “God rejoices” and everything in between to relay what God feels about certain things.
This wouldn’t be much of a problem, except because many of the people making such statements…
A small red dot emerges in the center of my vision, illuminating the surrounding blackness with a dim halo. A hissing sound cries out from the silence. The red dot fades to a barely perceptible glow. I blink rapidly, trying to regain any semblance of sight, but no matter how hard I close my eyes, and no matter how wide I open them, the blackness remains unchanged. The red dot shines and hisses again.
“Don’t just stand there staring.” The red dot calls out.
I squint, trying to glimpse whatever hides in the shadows and hesitantly step closer.
I live inside the belly of a great fish, just like that coward Jonah.
I spend my days wandering around aimlessly,
trying to make a few bucks,
or pursuing some hobby or another.
I spend my days searching for something to give me hope
that my life will be lived for the better.
I pray to God, asking what it is I should be doing.
I ask what path I should be walking on.
I ask how I should spend my time,
so that I may best serve the divine
string that ties us all together.
I ask to be shown my place in the universe.
They’re highly advanced hunters who utilizes lethal strategies involving camouflage. They’re incredibly intelligent, quick learners, and even have a sense of humor. I could very well be describing the Predator. You know, that human-hunting alien from the movie franchise with cloaking capabilities? But alas, I am describing the magnificent octopus.
The differences between these two species should be obvious, right? I mean, one is literally an alien…
I have had the displeasure of discussing theories of how life emerged on Earth with some creationists (I myself being a firm believer of evolution), but as you could guess, the conversation only…
I tend to write about (and attempt to write like) Ernest Hemingway and Jack Kerouac a LOT. You might say they’re my writing idols. Every time I sit down to write, I hope prose as elegant as The Old Man and the Sea spring forth from my fingertips. Every time I travel, I hope to acquire stories as raw and captivating as those found in On the Road.
With this admiration, though, creeps something a bit more sinister: Alcoholism.
Hemingway and Kerouac are both well-known alcoholics, but the list of famous writers/alcoholics doesn’t end there. …
I recently took a part-time job as a bartender. While the main factor in this decision was the money (gotta pay rent somehow, am I right?), I’ve always believed that a job should challenge you to better yourself in one way or another.
That’s how it is for me at least. I need some reason besides a paycheck to get out of bed earlier than I want, and I need something that’ll stick around a little longer than money in my pocket.
When I got into bartending, I thought it would be the perfect part-time work to give me both…
I remember times during my childhood when I would play outside with my friends (crazy I know). We would pretend we were secret agents and hideout near the electrical boxes between our houses, or ride skateboards along the curbs of our driveways as if they were entire skate parks. Looking back on those times, I remember myself as being immensely happy.
Now that I’m older, I see the electrical box as an electrical box. I see the street curb as a curb. The sidewalk is a sidewalk, and I treat it as a sidewalk. …
I recently finished reading Walden by Henry David Thoreau, and let me just say, for someone who wanted to live in solitude in the woods, the guy LOVES to talk. I mean, he legitimately dedicated pages upon pages about how much he loves to talk. He loves to talk so much that the first chapter of his most famous book is 60 pages long, and most of it is just him rambling about things like the cost of flour or his clothing preferences.
I once heard the first chapter called one of the biggest deterrents in the American canon, and…
Sustainability advocate, theology enthusiast, aspiring minimalist, and recent world traveler.