Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

It’s something I keep replaying over and over and over to the point that I can no longer differentiate between the pantomime and the reality. We exist in a vacuum of my creation. Because it’s safer this way, right? And at some point you just have to let yourself be happy. But the pieces don’t …

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The man who sits across from me isn’t what I expected. The stories depict him as towering; the man before me cannot be any taller than five-foot-one. He smiles. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says. His voice isn’t what I expected, either. It’s not booming. Not resonating through my ears. Instead, it’s gentle. Think …

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I cleaned the mess I call a room this week. While doing so, I found two short stories that never made it passed the first draft. Both were, oddly enough, titled after Bob Dylan songs. “Not Dark Yet” is about a man who flashes back to his childhood on his way to his father’s funeral. …

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 They carried all the emotional baggage of men who might die. Grief, terror, love, longing–these were intangibles, but the intangibles had their own mass and specific gravity, they had tangible weight. –Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried “The thing about a story,” wrote Tim O’Brien in “The Lives of the Dead,” the concluding short story in his …

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“Why do you say such a sad, depressing thing?” she asks. The words fall from my lips because if I say them aloud, I somehow validate my fears. Sad, depressing things, however, have been my life’s bread and butter. I didn’t get this far being cheerful and optimistic. Lately, though, I don’t know. A new …

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