Uh-oh.

I send Rashid a letter, and he sends me back a compliment:

You hit the nail on the head, one blow and into the plank.

Did I ever tell you that the crisp, clean economy of your writing sometimes makes me envious? Don't make me have to tell you again.
:-)

Zis is why I am now in a bothered state.

(wait for it, wait for it....)

I AM A STARVING WRITER!!!!

AUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH!!!!!

(Sam Kinnison and Charlie Brown moment.)

If I didnt appreciate it before, I do now.

All through my young adult life, I avoided even thinking of writing a a living.

Being a starving writer is not a kind fate. Suffering for your craft, with only a lottery chance of actually making a decent living from it.

I didnt wanna go there.

And now...

AUUUUUUGH.

Id like to fight it, because I cant. I write even when Im not writing.

And Im fucking poor.

Yes, I know this is the wellspring of creativity - where poverty gives you inspiration and material.. but.. noooooooooooooooo...

I didnt want to admit to it.

Aarg.

Ah well, time to go get me a job at Blockbusters.....
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Writing exercise:

Often story material is all around you.. use that as a starting point...

Lessee:

I live in an apartment over stores.

One of the stores is a hair-dressing place owned by a minor sicilian mobster.

He is FROM Sicily.

He has a bouffant, drives a mercedes that still has snow tires.. and yes.. wears pinkie rings.

The other store is a club called the "Dawg House", painted black with giant eyes and a bone under a wide half-moon opening.

It is owned by an itinerant son of the local police chief.

My buildings neighbors are: a young egyptian couple with a newborn, a man who is a foreman at a bra factory, a man who is never seen, a not-so-faded Puerto Rican beauty with her children who brings me food unexpectedly every so often, and a young, anti-social geek who is the superintendent of the building.

The geek super has an on-going feud with the club, calling the cops every week.

The super also has as a life mission of harrassing spammers.

He doesnt have many close friends.

He is afraid the musicians who want to meet him in a dark alley.

The building is owned by a very well-connected lawyer.. who is jewish.

There are 3 banks, literally in front of my building, right across the street.

There is a pool hall on the same block.

There is also a nail parlor on the same block, housed on the former premises of a jeweler, the letters of the jewellers name still in a multi-marbled mosaic in front of the doors on the sidewalk.

There is a karaoke bar a block away.

The nearby catholic church rings its musical bells at 6am every morning, several times a day on sundays.

The puerto-rican beauty's boyfriend is a minor celebrity.. a musician. He tried to commit suicide on New Years day. He is a NJ Transit bus driver.

The nearby newstand/gift store is owned by expatriate Ugandan/guyanese Indian immigrants.

The lady working there has six fingers... a thumb split in two.. all her nails painted bright red.

The deli around the corner is owned by two egyptian brothers.

One owned a disco in california in his youth.

As far as I know, I am the only black man living on this block.

There are several motorcycle clubs in this town.

Every weekend, there has been an "incident" involving members or even between rival members of the club.

The man who had the apartment before me.. left leaving all his belongings.. including his birth certificate.

His girlfriend, who smashed the intercom so I cannot hear my buzzer.. has been missing for several months.

No one knows where he is either.

Both are presumed dead.

*ponder*

Damn. You cant make *this* shit up.
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