pessimistic

Last night I sat up late to finish Andrew Greig's 'Electric Brae' and now wonder if I have the language, the poetry, the experience to write anything which even approaches this.  I can but aspire.   Write what you know, and make it more so I suppose.   Twisted truths.   Yeah.

What the hell does he think?

Black on white, I reclined on a bed not mine, having broken my bourbon virginity.

Near the end of a word-filled weekend, he was examining his prior expectations. "I thought you'd be wilder," he said.

I don't know what sort of wild he expected. I wondered however about the truth of his claim to be a writer.

Did he not know that writers tell tales of twisted truths?