An Excerpt #2:

The first thing that came to mind was a Bukowski poem I read the other day. I couldn’t remember what the title was, or how it went, exactly. But he wrote something to the effect of: “if you take the typewriter away from the writer all you have left is the disease that started him writing in the first place.” I hadn’t written in a long time. I was fucking sick. The disease was winning. The need to write is like an ever present malignant tumour that shrinks and grows depending on how often you write. At this point, mine was fucking huge, located on the brain, inoperable, and clearly causing some functionality issues. If Bukowski were completely honest in his poem, he would have added one simple sentence: “I’m permanently diseased.” I firmly believe all those that feel a need to write are permanently diseased. He’d have said, “I have the sad blue blues and I just want to fuck you – because I’m a writer and the disease is winning.” For him, it was escapism – for me, it’s a poor substitution.