These pieces of prose are parts of your soul, put down on paper for all to see. The
world doesn’t wait for them. An audience of indifferent, yawning spectators
watch as you step onto stage every single time, squinting into the spotlight
and trying to get their attention.
each act belongs. Each monologue deserves to be heard.
journal entries, to be honest. Messy, distorted, blurry diary pages. Made up
characters in made up worlds with real emotions and real meaning. The passion
and confusion of the day goes into these stories that get read late into the
work better than others. But all have their place.
naïve love story. The guilt-ridden redemption story. The confused longing. The
angry pointing. The darkness and the light.
are pieces of me, for better and often for much worse. But they’re true.
don’t follow formulas. Call me whatever you like, but don’t say I’m
still learning, still figuring this out, still trying to weave a wonderful
once dreamt of seeing one of these put into book form. Then I dreamt of several
side-by-side. Then I longed for the day when I did this fulltime.
I long for something simple. I long for one of this little stories to blow all
the rest away.
right time and the right place and the right voice and the right theme.
want to take that indifferent audience and turn them on their side. To make
them wonder where that came from. To
make them suddenly question everything before it.
don’t want praise because it makes me uncomfortable. But I do want these
stories to mean something. They are like my children. Each one is special to me
and always will be.
one day the whole thing will make sense to others like it makes sense to me.
This dark, creepy little tale sitting right next to this bright, corny little
story. I want to show that those make sense side-by-side. They make sense
coming from the same dark, corny soul.
Throughout, hopefully I will show
someone growing up, changing, believing, sharing. Always trying. Always hoping.