http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/the-ultimate-guide-to-writing-better-than-you-normally-do

Favorite lines - 

On writing:

The Whole Opening Paragraph, in fact: “Writing is a muscle. Smaller than a hamstring and slightly bigger than a bicep, and it needs to be exercised to get stronger. Think of your words as reps, your paragraphs as sets, your pages as daily workouts. Think of your laptop as a machine like the one at the gym where you open and close your inner thighs in front of everyone, exposing both your insecurities and your genitals. Because that is what writing is all about.”

On Procrastination:

“Procrastination is an alluring siren taunting you to Google the country where Balki from Perfect Strangers was from, and to arrange sticky notes on your dog in the shape of hilarious dog shorts.”

On Editing:

“There are two things more difficult than writing. The first is editing, the second is expert level Sudoku where there’s literally two goddamned squares filled in.”

On Commitment:

“Why did I quit my job at TJ Maxx to write full-time? Can/should I eat this entire box of Apple Jacks? Is The Price is Right on at 10 or 11?”

- L.N.

Disclaimer: McSweeney’s Internet Tendency and McSweeney’s Chair Logo are not the property of savagenoble.com and are used, in good faith, without permission.

a voice in the darkness marvels

—so many stars tonight—

because out here lying on the dock

on a warm cloudless night on a remote lake

the universe is as visible as the eye is powerful

nights like this millions of other suns

appear as a faint yellowish-white fuzz

across the black dome of our sky,

light pollution is civilization’s problem,

and only the biggest closest stars

herald the onslaught of the heavens

as fireflies announce summer

someone in the darkness nearby observes

—i’ve never seen so many, so thick.

you can’t even see the space

between the stars—

and a few giggle, and ooh and aah

i pause, and announce

—but we are the space between the stars—

and a few voices in the dark nearby

ooh and aah,

but no one giggles

Well, not a new Jeep, but a Jeep that was new to me. A black 2001 Jeep Cherokee, 6 cyl., 4×4. Before that, I drove a white All-Wheel Drive 1998 Subaru Legacy Outback wagon, which I bought four years ago and drove into the ground.

These cars, for all their similarities, four doors, four wheels, yadda yadda yadda, are polar opposites, demographically speaking. The people who drive them, or who people expect to drive them, are different. A Subaru is modest. A Jeep is macho.

In my little white Subaru, I got made fun of for driving a Lez-mobile. Funny, right? Even accurate enough to resonate. Playing off the stereotype of the clean living, homely dressed, woodsy small-town lesbians who drive Subaru wagons, be they Outbacks or Foresters, and cars like them. This happened consistently enough that I finally started initiating the joke, just to beat people to the punch. And, as it turns out, it was a polite enough joke, getting laughs from all ends of the socio-political spectrum, straight and gay alike. My lesbian friends looked at me in a new light, because I understood, and took special care in the self-deprecating delivery of a joke that appealed to one aspect of their lifestyle, or demographic, or whatever you call it.

When I got in my car, I was like Super-lesbo. Like Superman in his phone booth. Only Clark Kent gets in his phone booth and comes out as Superman, or vice versa, when I got in that white 1998 Subaru Legacy Outback, I became a white middle-aged small-town lesbian.

I stepped out of the door and my rich brown leather, mid-height, light-weight hiking boots hit the pavement proudly. My jeans belted squarely around my waist, and my unbuttoned second-hand L.L. Bean flannel flowed behind me gracefully, showing off the faded Indigo Girls T-shirt I got at Lilith Fair ’95. My mullet tickled the back of my neck and the feathered wisps on top of my head fluttered playfully in the breeze.

That car was trusty and faithful. Despite my lack of effort to maintain it well, it withstood four years of use and abuse. But finally, the transmission went, and the Lez-mobile had to go with it.

Then came the Jeep. I was a normal guy again, buzz cut, beard, jeans, casual shoes and all. The Jeep is big, clean, strong and capable, but, as I gradually discovered, currently at a point in its lifespan when it was due for routine maintenance, tune-up wise, that it hadn’t seen for 30K miles.

So once a month since I bought it five months ago the check engine light comes on and I have to run it in and get the spark plugs replaced, or the ignition coil, or the front wheel bearings, or something. Not the end of the world, and not bad enough to call the Jeep a lemon. But, I have officially learned my lesson.

I will never again take being a white middle aged small town lesbian for granted.

Across the board gun control isn’t the answer. Blaming video games isn’t either. The problem lies somewhere between the ease of availability of military style guns, assault rifles, or whatever you want to call them, and mental health of murderers.

There’s no easy answer that will solve the problems in one fell swoop, but both of those problems could be lessened with one strategy. Make it harder for people to own military style guns. Just like we have tighter controls on handguns than rifles and shotguns, it should be as difficult or harder for civilians to purchase military style guns and related equipment.

The constitution can be interpreted in a variety of ways, few of which get to the heart of the matter, which is that bad people have found ways to murder with or without guns. The least we can do is to make it harder for the next psycho to do it in a wholesale fashion with such destructive power.

Why should it be easier and cheaper for me to buy and wield an assault rifle, an instrument designed specifically for the destruction of human life, than it is for me to, say, buy and insure and license and register a motorcycle, or a car, for that matter, both of which are very dangerous, but designed to be useful, and sometimes even fun, transportation methods.

If purchasers had to undergo background checks, training, with public or privately licensed teachers at a state level, and classes to be themselves licensed to own an assault rifle, register it at sale, get insurance in order to register it in order to prove that they are financially responsible and mentally aware of the risk said gun could pose to society in the wrong hands, we would at least be able to say we did the best we could and have records of the individuals who have access to military style weapons and be able to restrict the possibility of one incidentally ending up in the home of a person with severe social or psychological problems.

For the record, I like guns. I have fun shooting them. I first shot a rifle as a preteen and a handgun before I was 20. I have hunted successfully, and unsuccessfully. However, guns were a boyhood fascination for me that never became a manhood obsession. I always borrowed my father’s or friends’ guns, and currently only own a small .22 long rifle, so I’m not much of a gun owner.

I don’t have a great personal or social investment in owning or using a gun, and barring a zombie apocalypse, will never attempt to purchase a military style weapon, so I’m not a stakeholder on that side of this debate. Where I do take issue is with people. I like people a lot, and I hate to see them become victims. The strategy of making regulations on military style weapons tighter isn’t about cutting off constitutional rights, it’s about admitting the dangers we face in a gun-weilding society and pinching off one area of risk.

How to keep unregistered, illegal guns off the streets is another matter.

thousands of me

smiling with fall

leaves

in the background

glance off

over the shoulder

to one side

the choir

of neck muscles

moving in unison

grumbles, as if a drummer

is warming up

his timpani

while the bassoons

tax the low range

thousands of me

wearing the same

shirt and my father’s

hairdo

and a political

smile

tucked in button

down shirts

with the collars

open

and casual slacks

belted squarely

around the hips

and the loafers

the loafers

loafers, loafers, loafers

thousands of me

thousands

of

me

with no identity

paid to stand

still

for a few moments

pretending

at being

paid to pretend

to provide shoppers

an impression

to impress them

to provide an image

of themselves

or their husbands

or sons

vicarious

and leading

if only their pictures

and portraits

and snapshots

looked

that way

if only they didn’t

instead

i am

trapped behind

glass

framed like

a criminal

an animal

caged

banging

on the glass

throwing bottles

and drinking poison

and banging my head

against the walls

telling them where

to shove it

aiming

a select finger toward

the viewer

daring them

to judge

or

to

look away

but they

have little

else to see

the frame is

the structure

and the structure is

provided

and if the body doesn’t

fit

isn’t fit

for the structure

it is an ill fitting

structure

and an unfit

body

in the frame

yet

the frame

works

whether

gilded

or tagboard

to restrict

to constrict

because

i am still obeying orders

taking direction

listening

to the wind

and the creek water

while rifling

through the woodpile

for material

to make

a new frame

of my own design

because this isn’t my life

it came

with the frame

a pair of lungs is

blowing blues scales

on a saxophone

somewhere near.

it could be ten stories

down

on the sidewalk

of the busy street

below,

or a few floors

up

in a private rehearsal

room. the notes

pervade the rooms,

elevator shafts,

infiltration

of heating ducts

and door frames

and loosely

insulated windows

in one-hundred

year old walls. they

blow across

the rooftops

and the neighborhoods

below sigh. it is

a blue day. cold.

clear warm sunlight

shines

the mood.

a cap

and jacket reflected

in a dark store

window

floating as if suspended

there by an

invisible body

empty collar

and cuffs

the sense of a frown

and the dread

but you can not confirm

or deny

its appearance because

it does not

a nonentity

by any other name

would not

the phantom’s joys

joys

and sorrows are his

own

his own to record

and his own

to forsake

he plays at good samaritan

but his intentions are

just samaritan

no better

than the date rapist’s

or the gold digger’s

best laid plans

he does not see

himself

for the space

that he inhabits

and he does not see

the space

for the glare

on the window

pane

the other jackets

and hats

passing between

him and it

and behind him

it’s all a post-modern

movie poster

in the galleria of

his post-apocalypic

imagination

he is the supernova, the

dying star,

non-hero in the

blockbuster train

of thought flickering

inside of his eyelids

then the green

screen pops up and

the warnings announce

his life, this transformation,

this vision,

his Metamorphosis,

is rated ‘n’

for nobody

and he sees

himself

in the raw-boned

flesh and

the wisdom of the crowd

around him prevails

three days unshaven

and the cap askew

dim eyes

and murmuring lips

a light inside

ruins the window

vision and he sees

the night custodian

illuminated

staring

back at him

through the pane

because he does not

recognize

the man

but a body

lost in thought

at his own disappearance

another sidewalk

narcissus

Le Ballon Rouge

“I felt as a child does for a balloon suddenly sucked away in the wind: a raw, sinking sadness.” – Karen Vogel, The First Year

the difference

between joy and loss

love and sadness

is the distance

between an outstretched finger

and a string

the exhilaration

of letting go

evokes the realization

of having

let go

seeing the balloon

floating away

no longer

bouncing along

like a new friend

behind you

you rewind

the sidewalks

the crosswalks

the plaza

the staircase

the promenade

to the vendor’s cart

it had been

floating

as far away

as the tether

would allow

and now

because you let it go

it’s free

and the pressure

locked away

beneath

a thin layer

of red rubber

carries it

away

aloft

in the wind

and the child

in you feels

that raw

sadness

that sinking

sadness

she calls herself a train wreck (supernova)

a train wreck

she calls herself

i disagree

a train wreck

is a man

made disaster

its costs?

a lot of money

and aching

of the

body

and the heart

and head

but that’s so

earthly

while her destruction

is intergalactic

like a supernova

a star

dying

the brightest

hottest

thing for lightyears

imploding upon

itself

and releasing all

the energy

and matter

it had left

its costs?

transcend knowledge,

are

matters of theory

for the best

priests

and scientists

and philosophers

because it is beyond

our comprehension

a superlative

wonder

and

after the release

of all

that energy

and matter

it

goes hurtling

through the universe

in a shockwave

of stellar power

changing the courses

of other galaxies

and their histories

and another star

dying

 Drunk Driver

four years is nothing

it is the gift

of life

because it

was not taken from him

on the booming

sparkling twilight

of his crime

some days

he will blame

the alcohol,

others,

himself

those are his good

days, and perhaps

his only

he has been given

them

because

he must live

to face

his punishment

and victim’s family’s

courtroom miens

(likely they will pray

for him,

have been

all this time)

in four years

less time off

for good behavior

he will go free

free from corrections

the prisoner walks

from one cell

to the next

a cage of concrete

and steel

to one of grief

and pity

the sweaty angst

of solitude

pawing

at his nightmares

become pangs of

regret

thoughts of suicide

no one

will ever look at him

the same way

the children will

weep and marvel

at the paucity

of man their

father has become

a dull pile of colorless

scorn

but the interim

(1461 days—includes

one leap year)

is his nightmare

the rest?

the thereafter?

it is a gift

it was not taken

from him