When I was living in the only home I have ever known, the Pigeon Coop in Santa Cruz, California, I used to come home exhausted from work.
After feeding my fish, I would sit down at the ‘puter and type out a few words. Most of what I wrote came out short. I was fucking exhausted after a mind numbing day of being called all the worst things imaginable as a phone solicitor collecting money for such as the Shriners Hospitals for Children. It’s a terrible thing to want money to help save children in pain.
I’m resentful. So sue me.
I didn’t do much editing. What I wrote was what you saw. There are days worth of stuff I wrote I never go back and read. People who do read what I wrote tell me it’s really something. That’s nice. Thank you. I never spend time rewriting what I wrote, and I’m almost afraid to go back and see what everyone is making a fuss about.
Recently I wrote something that wasn’t quite right, but I posted it anyway. I called the piece: The Poetry of ruin. Well, the idea was there. I liked a few lines, but the overall piece just didn’t work for me. It was like a piece of food cooked around the outside but not in the center and I’ve sent it back to the Chef.
Hopefully it won’t get spit on and sent back to me. That’s always my fear when I send food back to the kitchen. “Make this right,” and then the food is taken back to the Chef who then spits on it.
I’m working on that piece, The poetry of ruin. When I like it, I’ll post it. I think this may mean that I am growing as a writer. That would be nice. All I want to do is to write. When I get to driving truck, I will make more money in a year than I have made in my entire life combined. With that will come more problems but in the end all I want to do is to write. To have an indoor place and to be able to write.
In the meantime I practice writing. Kind of like this.
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Okay,
Father Luke
jenifer.wills
