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Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of August 27, 2023
Having spent much of my life being told I’m “too much,” being told that I should be more myself—more David in his natural state—is a strange pill to swallow. And I’m afraid I don’t recommend it. Then again, these are strange times, and perhaps it’s time for stranger things to happen.
A Brief Poem About a Writer Who Doesn't Write—Revisited
They say—they being creative writing professors, esteemed novelists, and hacks with wordy Instagram posts alike—that writers write. Writers who get their shit out there—not all of it, but enough of it—are the real writers. True warriors of the pen and keys.
Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of August 7, 2022
My backyard is home to very depressed worms. I keep finding sun-dried worm corpses on my walkway. And not even after a hard rain—as they might be flooded to the topsoil. It’s like they just have had enough of being a worm living underground and wriggle to the surface for that long-elusive moment of warmth before being cooked to death.
Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of April 10, 2022
I have come to dislike and disagree with the phrase, “A writer writes.” Because some people who write are just typists.
A Brief Poem About a Writer Who Doesn't Write
They say—they being creative writing professors, esteemed novelists, and hacks with wordy Instagram posts alike—that writers write. Writers who get their shit out there—not all of it, but enough of it—are the real writers. True warriors of the pen and keys.
Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of October 17, 2021
An unfinished manuscript can haunt you like a ghost. An unpublished book can devour your brain like a hungry zombie.
Notes from the Post-it Wall | Week of May 3, 2020
I wonder what the COVID-19 memorial will look like. No doubt it’ll dwarf the Vietnam War Memorial. My hope is that the biggest difference between the two is that Trump’s name will be one of them.
Getting Paid to Type as a Writer
Not everything has to be gold. Not everything has to be a bestseller. Most things won’t be either. But it’s nice to work toward something like that. Spending your days trying to leave something that will survive you, something that will separate you from the herd, something that your wife and kid and parents and grandparents and friends can be proud of. Something you can be proud of. Something that means anything to anyone anywhere. Even for a moment. Because if you can do that, then you’ve got proof to show the gods you’ve done something of value while you were here breathing the free air. It wasn’t a life spent taking; it was one that gave back, too.
Emotional Turbulence: My First Writers Conference
For weeks I had been riding a lifeboat in a raging sea of panic, joy, anticipation, and self-doubt as I prepared to attend a writers conference. To non-writers that may seem kind of weak. But the first conference is like stepping onto a stage for the very first time only instead of your looks and performance being judged, it’s your mind.