This collection of over two dozen short stories was written with the very conscious intent to stave off the crippling habit of overt self-editing. I was tired of over-thinking every theme, every subject, every opinionated stance, eventually even the words that I chose at (what I kept telling myself were) “critical moments.” And all of that was bullshit to me after a while. So, with this book, I didn’t do all of that. I stayed the course, even through the roughest and most uncomfortable waters. Whenever I thought to myself, “Holy shit, I can’t say that!” I immediately followed it up with, “Well–why the fuck not? What’s wrong with unfiltered honesty at the moment the mind lets the fingers know they can move toward whichever keys they wish to move toward the and plunge them downward, spelling that wretched line from a mind set free.
These days, these days are strange days to be a writer that’s still trying to make his mark. I feel that a lot of them cater to what audiences feel comfortable reading; that it be politically correct, free of taboo themes, free of triggers. But I see that, or I sense that, and I can’t but feel like that means those writers that abide to that way of thinking/creating are also producing work that is void of humanness, void of risk, and all the realness that has always drawn me toward this act of creation. Without them, a writer might as well stick to writing greeting cards.
But yes, the writing in this book may seem incoherent, solipsistic, or like I didn’t give a damn about what I was writing. But the truth is that I did care. Or, perhaps, that’s just the way the human mind works when it doesn’t consider every other mind outside of it while it’s busy going at the creative act. All I know, is that for that one year or so when I was writing it, I had never felt faster or more crazy free while doing the damn thing. That I know. Absolutely.
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