Wonder Writer

A few weeks ago, an Englishman musician reached out for me to write a bio. It sounded exciting. I got all worked up and prepped, and then I didn't hear back.  Annoyed, I had made three attempts for an interview, and I felt ignored. Two of the appointments he had either "worked" or "slept" through. I was starting to feel I was a character on the Catfish television show.  But, I had left a voicemail, and the Englishman on the voicemail was him. But, the voicemail was full, so that was troubling.   It was a lot harder to think about being inspired to write someone's bio when you are not feeling like your time matters. But, what I realized was that I was lumping this experience in with other poor creative experiences.  I was burned out. I lost my why. About a year ago, a musician I adore asked if he "Could just have a file of all of the photos I've taken of him for the last five years." He said, "Don't you just have a file?" Somethi

"Bastrop county PD, you are in pursuit of us, we are not evading arrest....you can arrest us when we stop."  This was the voice of the horse care crew 200 yards out from the stopping point. The equine vet was waiting. At that point, police sirens surrendered. Water burst upon arrival. Horse care crew faces told the story of hurry. The crew, speeding faster than the limit, had emergent reasons for not surrendering their journey. Though the foal was delivered safely, it wasn't before she struggled blue. The colors of sirens blasted behind as well. It sounded like a terrifying evening.  When I arrived, the next morning, adrenaline was still hanging in the air like beads in the doors of a house from the sixties.  Walking past the delivery room, which was a huge concrete room with hay on the ground, it looked like a war zone.  There were blood puddles all over the floor. There was a bloody pool in the hallway too. The concrete held the story's shivers from just a few hours