...might delete later

I want to be a paperback writer.

I am sometimes jealous of songwriters who do one thing and do it well.

The Kristoffersons, the Cohens, the Lucinda Williamses.

I am sometimes jealous of the rich veins of honesty worn proudly on dirty sleeves.

The cinema verité, the natural lighting, the rich wooden sounds.

I'm not jealous of anyone's success, but of singular and steadfast voices that evolve over a long lineage of records.

The ability to not lose the plot.

My goalpost is always moving, yet I'm the one that keeps moving it.

I'm the one who keeps resetting the dials in spite of myself.

A kind of creative masochism?

Probably.

Yet sometimes I revel in it.

Because I am an author of fiction.

A paperback writer.

An interloper and a tourist.

And maybe my verité exists between the lines.

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What I’m reading: The Club Kids (Waltpaper)

What I'm listening to: Everything is Wrong (Moby)

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