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I’ll sometimes hear writers talking about “writer’s block.” I have no idea what they’re talking about. I’ve never had that problem. My problem is I can’t stop writing. I couldn’t stop spewing out all this verbiage if I tried.
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I started keeping a daily journal in 1993. Twenty years later I have boxes and boxes of the things. Hundreds and hundreds of these notebooks, every page, every line, filled with my feverish, scribbled scrawls (I’m told within 20 years “cursive writing” will have become completely archaic, so a lot of good the things’ll do me since nobody will be able to read the damn things). I just find something really satisfying about taking the garbled chaos of my daily life and stringing into together in a linear form. I might not know what life is, or what life is about. But at least I can kind of…
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