Chila Woychik

I feign knowledge of writing: that I know something about it, that I should have learned something after all these years, that I might know something tomorrow. I read too much and write too little, or write too much and live too little. I have no classical education, no literary degree. I__ not specialized, Hugoed or geniusized; should I be writing at all? In this whole vast world, I__ a female peon sitting here at night wondering what it is I want to say. I aim for fluidity. But no, nix that line, that thought, this life. That__ the crux of it, isn__ it? This life: it__ out of reach. I__ not sure what I__ saying anymore.

Today I fed him right off the bat, and only checked Facebook twice.

You want to get your book to press. You rush it through. Revision number twenty__one. Do you really need twenty more? Yes. A half-baked book is a half-birthed child. It aborts, is put on life support; reviewers line the hall to pull the plug.

Nonfiction. I didn__ choose it as much as it chose me. It squatted and birthed me one raw winter day then jerked me up and set me to scribing.

Without the hard we stay too soft, and heaven is reduced to myths like life. Theology aside, it__ plain to see that God forbids we get too comfortable.