BULLSHIT AS PRACTICE FOR WRITERS


I‘ve never had writer’s block. I can always write something but sometimes I wish I hadn’t. I can always delete it if it’s merely glib or just plain awful. It’s not like that thing I said to someone they will never un-hear or forgive me for. It’s not a sin. But if I don’t write all the bullshit I won’t get to the good stuff. If I don’t practice my scales I won’t be able to play Haydn. I don’t play the piano but you know what I mean. Maybe it’s a kind of sortilege. I keep throwing down the same twenty-five thousand words and sometimes I hit. It’s work. So far I’ve not tired of it. By the way whatever I said to you that hurt you was bullshit. Can we be forgiven for our bullshit? Much of what we say in our life is bullshit. Practice for life. Like scales. But finally I can truly love you. Why did it take so long to learn? I’m old now. I’m discarding words till all that are left are the right ones.


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