Words With Rausch

The following post is one post in a series of posts in which I attempt to explain my lack of posting since I started this blog with the hopes of regular posting. Or something.

The bane of many an amateur author is life around them. Extraneous circumstances tend to take precedence whimsical and unimportant things, and when you string enough of them together, it’s the unfinished opus that usually takes the backseat. This series of Excuses posts I’ve been spewing upon your computer screen over the last month has sought to pick apart a few choice pieces of this real-life interference to show you, my presumed readers, why exactly the ol’ BIP’s fallen on hard times as of late. And today, I finish this mini-series with a bit of circumstance whose suffocating presence any suppressed and repressed creative type can relate to: work.

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The following post is one post in a series of posts in which I attempt to explain my lack of posting since I started this blog with the hopes of regular posting. Or something.

They say the best authors write primarily from what they know, what they’ve experienced, the very emotions that have tormented, delighted, and confused them over their several decades on this Earth. I know this. I read these authors regularly, and their exquisitely visceral and jarring dramatic retellings of past traumas knock me on my ass every time. I can always tell the difference between a passage written from strong memory and one written solely because it sounded cool to the author at the time. That high-level, so-real-it-could-happen-to-me-and-mine style of writing is why I myself have chosen to stumble down this faux-authorial road I now find myself lost on.

In short, I’ve always seen myself as just that kind of writer. I’ve always written from my own experiences within the world we share. I know this style of writing like the back of my own hand. Why, then, was I so woefully unprepared for its now-obvious ramifications?

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The following post is one post in a series of posts in which I attempt to explain my lack of posting since I started this blog with the hopes of regular posting. Or something.

So there I lay, on my couch, in my underwear, sweating the sweat of a man skirting obligation on a hot Philadelphia summer afternoon to watch just one more wrestling video on Youtube, when BOOM – something died loudly right outside my window.

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