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How it is

Saturday 8/8/20

Savage genius. Summarize it that way. I just wrote a story that may be the finest thing I have ever composed. Utterly fucking devastating. I don't know. I must step back and come to it again later today. I am having this reaction every time I compose now. I am conscious of when I molt and my new skin is immediately in place. My new armor for art and revealing unglimpsed corridors of the human condition in entirely new modes of narrative. A molt occurred last July with the composition of "Fitty." Another occurred around the time the rest of the world shut down in March and pretend writers began whining about the latest excuse they had not to write let alone write anything of value, and someone, something, said to me, "you go again now, change again now and it will be yet more powerful than the last time." And so I did. You could stake my entire legacy as what I believe I am and have proven what I am to anyone paying attention solely on what I have wrought since the end of March. I want to get this down in real time, which is why there is an entry like this. So that someone later has the evidence that this was real, that someone was like this, that they did this. The story today is about two seventh grade girls and Christa McAuliffe and the Challenger tragedy, their relationship with each other, their families, and their changing relationship with the world. Oh God please make this a meritocracy, please make this a talent-based competition, because I can absolutely destroy, annihilate, turn into atoms, anyone else who wants to write, thinks they write, or has ever or will ever write. And I am getting better. Unfucking real writing today man. Unfucking real. You're doing "Fitty"-level work every day. Now let's walk a lot of miles, climb a few thousand stairs, and keep getting stronger and better. You can beat these evil, bigoted fuckers. This work will beat them. Keep doing the work, and you will win. Total focus, no mercy, matchless art.


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