I just don’t think I am. On the spectrum of “Can Write; Will Write” to “Is a Writer” I am currently flush against the low end, painstakingly fussing over my words to assemble a few paragraphs each night that manage to be coherent and include a strong concluding sentence. The strong concluding sentence is important because it provides the allusion that I have words and wisdom for days stored up inside of me.

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Tonight I went out to see some bluegrass. Honest-to-pete bluegrass, with mandolin, banjo, harmonica and bass fiddle ablaze and feet all around stomping to the beat. The bands played originals as well as traditional bluegrass, and some covered Bowie songs in honor of the late idol’s passing. They all played at a small joint called Driftwood on Folsom Street.

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In 1973, Kurt Vonnegut said this, in an interview with Playboy magazine:

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Tonight I watched Netflix’s debut feature-length, Beasts of No Nation. It’s a beautiful movie, and horrific to watch. There is little to spoil that isn’t made apparent in the film’s trailer, so I can state the obvious and say that any film about children robbed of their youth and forced to join a rebel militia is going to be indeed horrific.

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Follow me: we are walking down the jet bridge to our plane, which will take us home, or away from home, or to somebody else’s home. We shuffle down the aisle, double-, triple-, quadruple-checking our seat number to ensure we sit in the correct spot. Those seated in the aisle turn inward to avoid the throngs of travelers moving by. Polite eye contact, never too long. We have a window seat: 28a. Over the wing, just forward of the engines. There are pleasantries exchanged as our neighbors take their own seats. Headphones or earplugs are donned, we halfheartedly listen to the safety reminders and no sooner does the landing gear retract than we are dozing, eyes heavy, lulled into slumber by the deep hum of the cabin.

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