august 13 vhs

The thing I wrote yesterday felt really good to write. The sentences came out fully-formed and required minimal edits. The paragraphs were just the right size and shape, and if you didn't know that kind of thing mattered to me, it does. I like lines and I like shapes and I can tell you when a shape is wrong from like fifty feet away. It is a terrible, terrible power. A friend's reaction to yesterday's post was to suggest I write a Chuck Klosterman-esque book of essays. This made me try to remember what my life was like when I first read Killing Yourself to Live, and while I could recall the broad strokes of it all —— where I lived, where I worked, and who I was dating —— most of the memories of that time in my life are 404-ed. Maybe it was the booze and maybe it was a bunch of bad shit that happened; either way, when I try to set my motherfucker to receive I simply cannot. There's this idea that writers just, like, sit at the keyboard and it all just comes out, all smooth and sexy,…