For those of you who remain subtextually challenged, today’s seminar emphasizes honoring one’s muse as a hard tool for injecting passion and fulfillment into every aspect of our lives.
If you’re any good in bed, your partner will proclaim your name as tribute in the same sentence that calls forth a favored deity.
Writers experience similar praise for their efforts, but the corroboration most often stems from within before anyone else may value our craft.
You obsess over precision and indulge your passion to succeed at this work.
We actually do pause and jump up on top of our mental stump to bear witness to our work.
The cliches are true, writers are a little coo coo. Sometimes we even hear our stream of conscious declare, “Damn, that’s one mighty fine line, yo.”
I’m too driven to cover horse poop with gold leaf, so I trust in a brutal honesty that takes no prisoners when culling limp-wristed prose.
I worship those tiny triumphs when a strong line packs knockout punch. I drink in these moments like heady brew that warms the guts. I love getting constant confirmation from my tortured muse. This is where I find bliss, purpose and a paycheck. But wait, there’s more.
That’s right, my life sucks a little, but I love it!
Oh yes, I do predict a direct correlation between impending paychecks and hearing “Jay,” uttered as tribute in the same supplicating sentence that calls upon a favored deity.
We’re gonna pow wow at last, Abraham. You better save me a seat at the tippy top of your dang pyramid, ’cause I’m not sitting on the pointy spot for you or any other man.