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Four times a day,
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get the words out.
Write in any genre in
300 words or less.
Hit publish.
Read. Be Read.
Write. Now.
His name is Will, and he's my age. A little taller and ganglier. Does a few more drugs, is a little quicker with a quip. As a kid he was extroverted in all the ways I was shy, and vice versa. Instead of exuding high-energy awkwardness in fourth grade,(more)
My other self is a 31-year-old columnist who works from home.

Is good with his hands and great with a cocktail shaker.
My other self would know how to write this. Why is he never around when I need him?

He doesn't suffer self-doubt, existential angst, and doesn't give a crap what other people think. He also wouldn't stand for these fucking man-boobs.

He can be a bit of(more)
At the end of my senior year in high school, my calculus teacher handed everyone the class list and said to write something nice by each person's name, or nothing at all if you didn't know them or didn't like them. It was all anonymous, and she typed it(more)
“You don’t have the guts,” he told me, “and believe me, I wish you did. The world needs more drag queens and my hunch is that you would be a good one. Not stellar but good.”

“Thanks Barth but your right. I haven’t so much as put on(more)
In the new(ish)ly added forward to Stephen King's revised editions of the first 3 Dark Tower novels, he writes:

"I think novelists come in two types... Those who are bound for the more literary or 'serious' side of the job examine every possible subject in light of this(more)
I have to tell myself to drop my shoulders.
I have to tell myself to mumble, to speak quickly.
All of the things the sergeants used to get after us about, all the things that would make them scream in our faces.  I have to tell myself to do them.(more)
It probably wouldn’t have worked if either of us had had anyone very close in our lives at the time.  But I was recently divorced, no kids, and he was single; my parents had retired to New Zealand, his mother was senile and his father dead; I wrote freelance and(more)
My other self stared back through the cracked glass, two large smudges that closely resembled thumb prints hovering over the hollow sockets that made up my eyes. The dark brown pools that rose to the surface of those tar pit sockets bounced back what little light rose up through(more)
There's the responsible one, the one who pays all the bills on time and in full, the one who behaves with decorum in the office, perhaps a little bored, but nonetheless polite. The one who always gets everything done. The dependable and dedicated one. The one you can count(more)