TONIGHT

Tonight what I am getting past is the suggestion that there is nothing interesting about my life. I have lived in the Middle West all of my life, and been content, more than content here. But when you grow up anywhere between the west and east coasts of America that isn't a large city, you are told, and everyone around you tells you, that there is nothing here worth thinking about or talking about.

But here I am thinking about it and talking about it.

Would like to say that I have a publisher for this book it took me long enough to finish writing, but I haven't gotten the time yet this week to even get it ready to send to the publishers. Thought it would be a good idea to put it on line, that lots of people who would never see it if it were out in print would see it on the net and in blogs. This turning out to be sort of true. But putting it up on one blog and then another takes a lot of time. I am taking as much time putting this book up on the internet as I would if I were... no, that's not true. And it's a lot more fun putting it up here than printing it out, sending it to publishing house after publishing house hoping I'll be discovered. I'd rather be discovered while I'm waiting to be discovered.

People go on reality television to be seen. They go on American Idol or whatever Idol so that they can be seen. People do all sorts of things just to be seen.

Why does a writer write? To be heard? Possibly, but I think the best of us do it in order to hear.

James Gilliard, are you out there?

Is anyone out there?

Moloch, Moloch, loveless in Moloch.

P.S. A little Allen Ginsberg never hurt anyone.... well, except maybe Allen Ginsberg....