Chapin City Blues

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

I’ve never ridden a bike in my life. And the amount of miles I’ve driven a car is equal to or less than the number of years I’ve lived on this planet. Motion on wheels doesn’t make sense to me. Even riding shotgun or in the backseat of a car is enough to make me nervous. …

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“It’s perfectly natural for butterflies,” I type. I pause for a moment, counting the years on imaginary fingers. “Twelve years into this game and it still takes a lot out of me,” my fingers click-clack on the keyboard, pausing for just a glitch of a second to take in the fact that, twelve years ago, …

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According to Amado, I’m sharing more intimate details—more corazón—at the readings. Thursday, I read Eulogy of the Living (a sewn together piece I shared a few months ago) and a post from the blog. “My writing’s always been personal,” I defended myself, not knowing why. “Yeah, but…” And I knew what he meant. Give a …

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I slaved away at an introduction for last night’s reading. Set to introduce Amado Balderas, a friend of mine, as the night’s MC (and every night’s MC), I didn’t want to screw it up. I didn’t, but I went off script. What I said and what I wrote were the same, though greatly edited. This …

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