na foine ting
Friday, December 09, 2005
I'd meant to write this thing about the Sharks guys coming here and hockey and settling in, and I'm working on that, but right now this is what I'm saying instead.
I roar conversationally.
I'm not sure how to really even modulate anymore, written or otherwise; it's all this massive amount of *talk*, which is I guess one of the occupational hazards of being a writer. Of being me.
As you've by now observed, however, it's its own sort of baffle. There's so much so loud you might miss the important stuff, in fact I generally count on that.
Like right now. Four paragraphs in and you're still reading but, really? I haven't said a damn thing.
I wrote this post a few times. A lot of long versions.
What is telling is what is most brief. You will know what I mean when you read this, and maybe the weight of it is too much, but I don't think so. I think you already know.
None of it, not a word, not a single word, is fiction.
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