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The Most Luxurious Mammoth

When I was small, my parents would sing a certain lullaby to me. I don't think I've heard it since. Like any writer, I took that tender memory and perverted for the sake of a story. I made a rough, funny character write and sing "The Whore Song," set to the lullaby's...

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The Problem With Explaining Grief

I've been looking for a way to explain how I feel about my father dying. It's as if I were born on a continent, and I played there, and I grew up falling, and getting back up, and figuring out how I fell. I went back there when I was proud. I went back there when I...

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Five Good Reasons Not to Write

I gouged out part of my soul and hurled it into a wood chipper the other day. It was no fun, although I did get to eat pie while I did it. It happened because I’m trying to write something longer than the instructions for assembling an armoire made in Korea, and...

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I Should Never Be a Cyborg

I'm writing this with a tequila bottle in one hand and a five dollar cigar in the other. That's not totally true, I guess, or even true at all in the technical sense. But I could be writing with booze and smokes in my hands if I wanted, and every writer in literary...

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Planning for My Literary Beat Down

I will infiltrate the DFW Writers Conference this weekend. I hope to make important contacts, find people who tell me how great my work is, learn writing and publishing secrets, and meet a an agent who thinks my novel is so marketable they’ll run over orphans while...

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