Excerpts from Winter, 2021 . . . Dread seems to be following me. “Should we be worried?” They ask. Always is the answer. Now stop, because worrying doesn’t help. F. Scott Fitzgerald wanted to be the voice of his generation. Mine is a generation of too many voices and a desperation for silence. Everyone wants everyone else to shut the hell up. What a time to be alive. Who has the space to read? Who has the will to think? What’s wrong? What could possibly be so uninspiring? This is how it is now. I have nothing to say. I have no characters speaking to me. They’re tired. They’re sick of this. We thought life was going in one direction and now it’s going in no direction at all. I write spitefully now, selfishly, and I hope that someone out there still reads stories. And if they don’t? I’ll continue to write them. And rewrite them. And reconstruct them. And uproot them. And drill them into fragments until I can’t decipher my own words or what they were ever supposed to mean. . . . #writingisstrange https://www.instagram.com/p/CbnksFQJIPM/?utm_medium=tumblr