Sean Taylor's Blog, page 7

Whoever left these footprints were clearly dancing, where did they go?

The fact that writing never ever gets any easier and I am still doing it after fifteen years clearly shows you I am a stubborn man.

HEY CHAPTER TWO, YOU'RE HALF WRITTEN, AND I HAVE ENOUGH MATERIAL TO WRITE THE OTHER HALF OF YOU, AND I REALLY WANT TO, BUT I REALLY THINK WE ARE LACKING A CATALYST. SO WHENEVER YOU WANT TO FIGURE THAT OUT LET ME KNOW, I'VE ONLY BEEN WAITING FOUR MONTHS FOR IT.

thanks, chapter two, really, you're gorgeous, you just need one more thing.
what is it?

Sincerely
Your Creato...



I want my hands to write to you with the same providence of a pearl diver. I want to write something that takes my breath away while I’m already holding it. Grasping is one of my favorite words. I want to link the pore rives in our fingerprints, so I can call them our relics. I want to get lost in a desert with you, so we can play Aladdin, and find out if we are some of the few, those precious few, that break out into song while undergoing severe heat exhaustion.

Let's live in the hour. Make powerful statements of how we will not let this die. This is not what I had in mind!

    I want to rent out the room in which “Good Houses” was originally recorded. I want to sit with my back against that wall and stare at another wall and listen to that outro. I want to sing that song with the very first walls that heard it. 
    “This is not what I had in mind” 
    When I listen to Madeline, when I listen to her album ‘The Slow Bang,’ I listen to the echo’s effect on it’s surroundings.
    There could be a world, somewhere, where the walls take emotional punches. Where the we...

Your precious hands

Recently I spoke with a friend in regard to the great lie that is fiction. 
At this point I’m pretty sure it’s mostly just kite design.
If it takes enough air, it will fly.
And fiction is a lie, until enough people believe you.

We all carry our weight against the exaltation of others.

I’m the harshest critic.
I'll be the last one in line.
I want the shortest breath, and that's what writing is.
Choke me, I’m breathless when I see you.

Every author with every sentence casts a net,
and that is nothing new...

What if there's more?!

    One year ago I bought an Ansel Adams calendar and hung it on the back of my bedroom door. Two months before that I spent a Saturday night laying in bed thinking about suicide. I remember this night very well and have never told anyone about it. I knew I would never kill myself, I am far too afraid of death to ever consider it, but I was so depressed I felt like I was already dead. I wondered if I had in fact killed myself some days before, and my soul was slowly being wrung out of my body...

You must be terribly worried

I love you Mr. Vonnegut And book number three is one third written.

That one's called rocketship, and that one's simpleton.

As it turns out, there are currently no kittens to foster. Apparently there's a kitten season and now is not it, and I am the king of terrible timing. If I had kittens right now I would write a story about them, while they climbed on me. I would read it to them, they would be my editors, they would let me know if it was terrible. I trust them, the raw sensibilities of young felines are distinct and sharply attuned. Someday will be kitten day, and that will be a gracious day.
Hey whatever happe...

This room misses you

“She originally took dog photos to make rent. She lived off of it, taking pictures of people’s dogs while they’re not even home. There’s this app that costs five dollars a month, most people signed up right after they adopted, she had two hundred clients, that’s a thousand dollars a month. Basically she showed up once a week, and took a picture of your cat or kitten or dog or puppy in the exact same place and position, once a week, every week. That’s what the app promised. Then every year, o...

I'm pretty sure this story is about missing something. What should I call it? I'm missing something? This room is missing something? This room misses you?

“She originally took dog photos to make rent. She lived off of it, taking pictures of people’s dogs while they’re not even home. There’s this app that costs five dollars a month, most people signed up right after they adopted, she had two hundred clients, that’s a thousand dollars a month. Basically she showed up once a week, and took a picture of your cat or kitten or dog or puppy in the exact same place and position, once a week, every week. That’s what the app promised. Then every year, o...

There is no hurry.

In writing I greatly value the pace of the language, which is not to be confused with the rhythm of language. The rhythm is the pattern in the sounds that the words make as they bounce off of each other, either in the readers mind, or off of the readers tongue. The pace is the speed in which readers are compelled to ingest the thought the words are pressing upon them.
The language that Raymond Carver chooses delineates an endearing, patient, honest, cautious, almost meditative pace to his wr...