Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Postcards From the Solemn Nation of Procrasti
The fucker about working on a novel, I'm finding, is you go forever without finishing anything. To misquote a friend, self-hate does bloom. But back in December, I was asked to contribute my suspect talents to a fundraising campaign for the local university radio station. The deal was, listeners like you could get a story from a writer like me for however much money. And you got to sort of call the shots: I had to use three words of your choice. I don't know what ever happened with those stories, so I figured it had been long enough that putting them here would not be stepping on anyone's toes.
Here you go:
NINE MORE YEARS AND HE CAN GET DRUNK ABOUT IT
NOT FOR LACK OF LOVE OR WANT
A KILLER ON ENERGY
NOT A SCRATCH ON HIM