write tiffany write. the internet has killed me. held me hostage, then shot me dead. i fantasize and obsess about a story that needs to be written, day in and day out. frantic about the first sentence, hungry for the first lines, i’ve begun and ended a thousand times. today (like now, before i leave bed, before i clean the house, before i make tea, before i eat breakfast, leave, go shopping, surf the net, wash the clothes, go back to work, before any other fucking thing) i swallow the fire, bite the bullet, tell the net to kick rocks (after one quick blog post), say now or never to the life i claim i want…
and (just) write the fucking story.
Nonfiction Woman 