Last week what should have been a complete catastrophe happened to me. My beloved hard drive stopped working out of the blue. One second everything was there, then the next, nothing could be found on any computer I plugged it into. I thought I had lost everything I’ve ever written since deciding to maybe, possibly, hopefully, hopelessly, be a writer. Five or more years of my badly-written stories. My amateur poetry. My school work. My life-changing, budding, but horrid, manus
You are what you eat. I’m pretty sure everyone from Christians to vegans has used this cliché while trying to convince others of some holistic approach to purify the body or mind or soul. Even so, I think it’s a good expression; a nice reminder that we are made up of the things we consume. And really, that’s what we are: consumers. No matter how else we wish to define ourselves—as artists or poets or writers, as creators and producers—we are inescapably consumers. I know cons
When my mama threw my homemade mixtape out of a moving car, “Workin’ Em” by Lil Wayne had just finished playing. Three minutes earlier when it started, as soon as I heard the beat drop, followed by the well-known intro, Gangsta grillz you bastard, I tried hard to scurry out of my seat belt in the back seat and reach my hand over the headrest, hoping to press the knob on the stereo in time to cease the commotion. But clearly, it was too late. It’s really an eye-opening experie
It’s been a bad night. It’s 5:04 in the morning and it’s a bunch of niggas blasting Young Jeezy and shouting announcements—which sound like lies—about their football stats. Normally, I wouldn’t mind. I love Young Jeezy and niggas who lie, but it’s 5:04 in the morning. My loud ass air conditioner drowns the sounds out with more noise. It’s on auto, on 80 degrees. Every time it comes on, Zero wakes up and barks. It’s that loud. Every time I awaken, I say a different prayer that
When you tell someone that you want to write for a living, a look of confusion drowns their face. Their eyes touch the ground, they say a silent prayer, they look terrified for you. The conversation usually goes like this: Person Who Doesn’t Write: What are you going to school for?
You: Creative Writing
Person Who Doesn’t Write: What are you gonna do with that? After this shot to the heart, the creative writer usually has an awkward pause of contemplation. They usually have