Good writing is the stuff that inspires instant jealousy

The other day, I was reading a book and had to, every few pages, set down the book and mutter a curse.

“No one should be able to write this well this easy,” goes the abridged version.

The most horrible thing about being a writer, or trying to be, is that in order to have any chance at being a good one, you’ve got to read lots of good books and other really well-written stuff. And to do so is a continual process of being smashed in the nose with the realization you’ll never produce anything half as good or enduring as what you’re flitting your eyes across at the moment.

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For Easter, children and the spring that hopes eternal

I’ve said before that I hate spring, and I do.

This is not the climate or location for it, even in the best years.

For the longest time, I thought the smoke from all of the wildfires was just the usual dust blowing in the air, the brown particle overcast of West Texas common to the season. It’s too dry to keep down the dirt, and that’s true, yet it’s now too dry for there to be much left unburnt except for dust, it sometimes seems lately.

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