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On Writing

Notations on the world of writing

Singing The Small Press Blues

So, I was up at Beyond The Margins this morning, reading a post about envy by Robin Black. I think most, if not all, writers are envious of other writers at one point or another. But that alone is not why I checked the post out. I’ve been struggling with something that goes beyond mere envy. Indeed, it’s not envy at all, nor envy’s evil cousin jealousy. It’s anger.

Let me explain.
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Fire and Rain

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The moon is nearing full. I can see it outside my bedroom window. Clear sky. Cold. Back in Detroit. Back home. Who would believe that shit?

Look down upon me, Jesus. This city is in the toilet. Is that the way it should be?

Seen fire. Seen rain. Detroit in the toilet? Yeah, kind of saw that coming. Happy about it? Maybe once upon a time ago I might have given it a thirty second laugh. Now? Not so much.

Detroit is a grand old lady brought low by greed and avarice. There are great people here. People who stayed because they had to. People who stayed because they wanted to. And those of us few who returned because we love this dirty old town, this wheel-spoke layout of a city that refuses to die despite those who stab it at every turn.
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