Because you don't just choose to become a writer. It's not an open job fair on your college quad. It certainly isn't the Top-10 list-making genre used by respected and no-longer-respected media outlets alike. And it sure as hell isn't because Auntie Yum Yum thought you wrote the prettiest, most emotionally scarred adolescent vampiric prose she had… Continue reading Writing and Why You Shouldn’t Bother
-- Brian John Schaefer (circa 1985) Twin Peaks 1.4 I suppose it was the moment I read that the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire had a journalism department worth scooping home about. That sounds about right. I needed some internal rationalization of why I chose this particular branch of the venerable state-strong UW system. Eau… Continue reading Eau Claire, Wisconsin
"And the Vikings are like the old girlfriend who calls you once a year, gets your head spinning no matter whose bed your hat is on, and will leave you speechless in an instant later...after you've followed her every move, and gleefully watched her set you up a'la Peppermint Patty, smiling sinister the entire time. "
You could throw in the three major forms of rocks in there as well. Igneous, magma, and sedimentary. Gases, I suppose. And space. But everything else? Fake. Fraudulent. Man-made. Artifice. And the world's artists? Are in on the joke. So, good morning, to no one in particular. Check out some of my artificial… Continue reading Everything not living is Art
post-apocalyptic-optimists: the manifesto "I assure you, doctor...It is relatively simple matter for a weathered charlatan like myself to put up with so small a carnival as this..." -- Friedrich Nietzsche (post-sanity) ...and here I thought there would be nothing at this party besides the cool, incandescent judgements of a… Continue reading “You ain’t no Howard Hughes…”
A few years ago, I was known as “the guy who walked” -- often putting 7 to 8 miles beneath my feet. And as one buddy of mine commented decades ago, I have the gait of a “determined caveman” often with my head aimed solely toward the path beyond me. (Hancock Park, 2011-12)
I've begun scanning pieces of writing from my earlier days. This for instance is the cover from my first (failed) novel. The title was a blatant ripoff of "The Ginger Man" by J. P. Donleavy. The plot was non-existent especially considering it was set in Dublin and I had never traveled to Dublin. Despite these petty indiscretions, it's a failure worth remembering.