August 31, 2012
Someone just asked me what you have to do to become a writer. Here’s what I should have said:
have an imaginary unicorn friend, take your hands off the handlebars, explore stormwater pipes, grow silkworms, get lost in a forest, fly a kite, turn the lights out in a cave, get dumped by a colossal wave, eat hailstones, have a mud-fight, find a shark’s egg, rollerskate, save a baby bird, eat periwinkles, make perfume with rose petals and water and sell it for twenty cents a bottle, make butter by shaking the shit out of milk, break bones, have stitches, write eulogies for pets, first kiss, first love, have your heart broken, record a break-up mix-tape, break a heart, burn your diary, burn your bra, shoplift and get caught putting things back, pierce your own ears eleven times with a needle, dye your hair orange like Howard Jones, punch a bully, build a car engine, make stupid mistakes, run away, go back, leave home, go back, road trip, survive a bank hold-up, get knocked out by a bar stool, step on a snake, find out your friend is a murderer, get knocked out by an 8-ball, change career eight times in ten years, regret everything, regret nothing, have a baby, lose a baby, watch someone you love take their last breath, save a life, love someone more than you love yourself, feel wind, taste rain, touch fire, have an anthem for the memories you want to keep and one day give a hundred dollar note to a homeless person just because;
love, hate, laugh,
But hey, that’s just me.
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