Dear T — 

I lie in bed most nights, awake, thinking of things…people…stories… Though, I’m still avoiding the one I have to write.

Writers typically have two problems. Either they don’t know what to write or they’re too lazy to write what they know. Oh, and money. But nevermind that.

I’ll talk about both things. I’ll feel less lonely.

I procrastinate by starting new projects. Like this one. Like my anthology. The issue is you just create more work.

For example, I went to McDonald’s for lunch on Sunday.

The restaurant was filled with Chinese and Korean families who all bring their loud, small children there after church. I love this. The best thing about America is when it’s not America.

In line in front of me, an old white man with a simple ring of white hair ordered an ice cream cone. When the server offered it to him, he replied —Am I a pig??

(Several answers came to mind, but I kept quiet to watch the events unfold.)

The old man repeated the question; the server continued to stare blankly at him. Finally, the old man told the server to cut the scoop of ice cream in half.

The old man looked back at me in disgust. I said —In America, everything gets bigger. Including us. Then the old man asked the server —Where’s the chocolate?

The manager came out —You didn’t pay for chocolate. But he pulled out a cup and filled it with chocolate and gave it to him anyway. The old man went away.

A few minutes later, the old man came back and said —What, no napkins? An older Mexican server, worn smooth by angry white guys, gave him some.

It was an entire Charlie Kaufman film ready for the taking.

My mentor at Harvard (who lived in the house Mark Twain did) had a basement full of file cabinets. I tended to them. He kept every fact that ever interested him filed away.

He always said —Creativity is confusion. Eg, reading the word seamen but thinking the word semen. I often imagine this bearded, wild-eyed man sleeping above his buried treasure.

(Sonic Youth said —Confusion is sex. So, creativity is sex.)

I think, people don’t need a push. They need a pull — something they can’t let go of even if they fall and skin their knees time and again.

They have to, to live.

Or if they don’t let it out…

I have hidden veins. At the doctor, they have to poke me 8 times before finding one. But when they do, the blood flows rich and quick.

When you find your story, it’s like opening a vein. Which brings me back to my story.

The problem in losing someone is that there is always a phantom love. There are many ways to make love. You choose the one you need. The unexpected is the best.

I bought a new camera and some “fast glass” — a lens that opens wide and takes in everything but gives back only the soul of something, much like the artist.

There is no limit to how much you can procrastinate.

— Ever D

P.S.

If you’re really stuck though, remember — dirt is rock. Powdered rock. If something can grow from that, imagine what can grow from your heart and soul.

P.P.S.

It’s my birthday tomorrow. This was my present.