If you have a baby and you’re tired of singing the child to sleep (or in some cases humming) the child to sleep with the same old tunes, you might want to invest in Metallica Lullaby’s. A recording of 11 Metallica songs rearranged into what are advertised as “soothing” lullabies.
A major concern of mine is that this will be the title of my biography. Rather than that title, I’d prefer, “Well, It Was a Good Try.”
I’d love to have thousands and thousands of people read what I write, but that isn’t as important as doing it because even if there are times I don’t think it’s important, I know it is.
Sitting here, day after day, trying to turn ideas into words and sentences and paragraphs that will make enough sense, cast enough of a web to grab the attention
This New Yorker cartoon is paraphrasing Ernest Hemingway: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
Yes, it was a terrible morning, but at least I got something out of it. If I write enough, I always do…
Brian was tired, not drunk. Couldn’t they see that? Couldn’t they just smell his breath? Couldn’t they just listen to him talk to tell he wasn’t drunk? He was just overworked and tired, so very tired, that’s all.
This is the hard part: I don’t know where to start this. I don’t want to sound like a drooling old pervert, but the fact was, she was quite pretty and I found myself glancing at her in that way that I imagine all older men of mine do – wanting to look, wanting to admire, wanting to imagine, but not wanting to get caught at it. If this was a love story, I would begin it there: with me looking, but trying not to look.
I am a Writer