14 Street
Union Square

I guess what I've been realizing lately is that writing as a profession is not such a great idea. Yeah, I would die without writing, but I just can't bear to let my works go. To let you read this is killing me. Last year, I had a short story that was supposed to be published in an anthology of Avant-Pop works. Everything was all set, until the publisher and I had a final details meeting where he said, "I loved the story, the ending where the bitch died, it was hillarious." I couldn't believe that the bastard found the ending funny. It was morbid, disgusting, it was supposed to make him think, not laugh. So I withdrew my story from the anthology at the last minute. In retrospect it was a mistake, I've been kind of blacklisted in publishing circles. "Too sensitive," they all say about me. But what I have ralied in these lean times is that I'm not a writer. Writers write to share their words, to guide the reader into some sort of greater understanding of life, whether it's his intended meaning or not. I write to survive.

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