In which I discuss my motivations for writing, and ponder why a certain douche nozzle frat boy is considered a literary iconoclast, remarkable novelist and poet.* You know that feeling you get that’s like a surge of inspiration, an electric current pushing you forward and physically forcing you to bring a pen to paper, to write…Read more 5 Reasons Why London Made Me Smile This Month Or Jack Kerouac Was Kind Of An Arsehole, Wasn’t He?
An Internal Monologue of Indeterminable Length or Sorry Mr. Orwell, I know this is not what you wanted I can’t write. I just can’t do it. Just write something. Just pick up a pen and DO IT ALREADY. Writing, or convincing myself to do so, often feels like trying to swat a persistent and scarily…Read more Why I Can’t Write: Wrangling with Writer’s Block