Writing is easy, unless you want to do it well, and then it is like giving yourself an enema with an under-powered Dustbuster. It is brutal, bloody, sweat-stained work, and I despise it.
I started writing in high school, because they told me I had to. I found it was a way of categorizing my thoughts on some subjects, remembering what I’d seen and done, thinking things through. The majority of what I’ve written has since been wadded up and thrown away or, more recently, scattered into billions of little electrons never to be seen again. I am my own worst critic.
Recently, however, some events in my life caused me to go back and find some of those old pieces that survived, and to post them here. Thinking that they’d be seen by others, I suddenly found the experience of sharing them to be very exhibitionist. I worried over every phrase, reworked what was on the page, hated what I wrote, and felt like I was baring my soul in ways that shouldn’t be done, in polite company. Nevertheless, here are a few pieces that had meaning to me, for one reason or another. Some are old. Some are new. None are brilliant. They simply are.