I want to be a comma, snug against a phrase. Or a quotation mark, hugging your words. A semi-colon; a pause. Or parentheses (keeping safe the things you didn’t really want anyone to hear). Maybe a period, the last thing you see before everything ends.
“Charlie there is no future in anything. I hope you agree. That is why I like it at war. Every day and every night there is a strong possibility that you will get killed and not have to write. I have to write to be happy whether I get paid for it or not. But it is a hell of a disease to be born with. I like to do it. Which is even worse. That makes it from a disease into a vice. Then I want to do it better than anybody has ever done it which makes it into an obsession. An obsession is terrible. Hope you haven’t gotten any. That’s the only one I have left.”—
It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.
It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.
It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.
I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.
It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see beauty even if it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.
I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the moon, “Yes!”
It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.
It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.
It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.
Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or…
After hitting up CunninLynguists’ producer Kno for an exclusive remix
of Maroon 5’s Goodnight Goodnight that eventually ended up being cut from their 2008 remix album Call & Response due to sample clearance issues, Brandon Phelps at Variable Entertainment, this time with up-and-coming Detroit singer/producer JMSN (pronounced Jameson), reaches out to Kno again for an exclusive re-work of JMSN’s single Alone. JMSN’s album †Priscilla† out in stores and itunes
Could you pretty please, just once, RUN YOUR SHIT THROUGH SPELL CHECK?! I am dying here. Actually, you know what’s worse? Those of you who DO reread your shit, highlight your errors, and then just submit your stories anyway. Is the highlighting for me? Do you want me to skip right to your mistakes?
On another note, I cannot read one more submission about a kid with one dead/deadbeat parent. I get it, it’s emotional and controversial and could potentially get made into a Lifetime movie someday, but IT GETS OLD SO FAST. I would say seventy percent of the stories I read for my F.W.T. position are about broken homes. This could totally be exciting, except they’re all broken the same way. Either mommy dies, or daddy runs out. I’m tired of reading the same story again and again.
“If you’re gonna have pizza with someone else, what do you have to do? You gotta talk about what you want. Even if you’re going to have the same pizza you always have, you say, ‘We getting the usual?’ Just a check in. And square, round, thick, thin, stuffed crust, pepperoni, stromboli, pineapple — none of those are wrong; variety in the pizza model doesn’t come with judgment. So ideally when the pizza arrives, it smells good, looks good, it’s mouthwatering. Wouldn’t it be great if we had that kind of anticipation before sexual activity, if it stimulated all our senses, not just our genitals but this whole-body experience. And what’s the goal of eating pizza? To be full, to be satisfied. That might be different for different people; it might be different for you on different occasions. Nobody’s like ‘You failed, you didn’t eat the whole pizza.’”—