Half the reason I’m a writer today (other half: attention-starved fame and drama whore) is my love for reading.
The Splice reading list.
Lesson learned: you don’t have to hit people over the head with pussy.
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The novel is marinating so it will be even tastier.
It’s the kind of book you fall asleep reading because you never really get to “a good stopping point.”
The inner mean girl says I’m just some mediocre blogger, not a real writer.
It’s kind of Pinteresty and buzzy looking and cute, isn’t it?
Writing: the narcissism of forcing your thoughts and feelings upon a world that does not care.
My very first cash for words came in a parking lot from a football player.
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