here is some text.

It is sized correctly for your tiny screen. Notice, too, that it isn't artificially edited (aka stilted) for clean justification. I can definitely do that: give me a line-width, in characters, and I can tell whatever story you want with perfect justification and no hyphens. But here, I don't care. By the way, unfortunately, I left a period in the headline, but I'd be willing to bet that's been done before.

This is someplace to string words together, someplace to calm the mad flow of ideas and let the steam escape before it explodes. Don't expect much. Hell, don't expect anything. It's just something I have to do.


A high-school music teacher is the reason I can't manage time and money. He's a real pervert and a sonofabitch who used me as his personal whore for three years. Threatened to have my scholarship pulled from the private school I'd been lucky enough to get into; threatened to drive my mom crazy, which would've been a very short trip, since she was already leaning over the rail.

Writers have to get things on paper -- figuratively -- if they want to function normally in society. Like the rat's teeth, which grow up into his brain and kill him if he doesn't gnaw, writers have to write, or risk losing their minds. The loss is usually temporary: once they empty the bucket, all is well again for a while, that is, however long it takes for the bucket to fill, which varies by writer.

Yes, this is rough draft quality, and yes, I'm mixing metaphors like James Bond in a liquor store. Told you not to expect anything.

The news of my sexual abuse most likely would have driven my mom insane. While she lived, I couldn't speak it. Hell, I couldn't even acknowledge it, in a journal, with a therapist,anywhere. Afraid I'd speak out of turn, so I bottled it. I blocked off wide swaths of my personality, leading my wife's cousin to comment years later on how malleable I seemed to be. You'd be malleable, too, if you're trying to blend in, so Questions don't get asked.

Unhappily, writing is re-examining values. If you mask yourself, you're burying your values, and you can't write. Not really. Not well. And that leaves two choices, at least for me: go crazy, or just be completely flaky.

Flaky, for me, meant three things: making up personal biography and changing it like socks; streaming nonsense words when I was alone; and committing a sort of mock suicide by refusing to take care of my time, money, and health.

I forget which literary luminary said it, and to whom it was said, but the best advice I've probably heard was, "Write more, It'll help with all those moods you're having." So here we are.

Copyright © 2019 by Bill Wear. All rights reserved. No part of this transmission my be copied, screen-shotted, or otherwise shared without the express emailed permission of the author. Prepared on my personal Linux server, in HTML, using vi.