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April 29, 2015 by musehick

It’s funny, the mutations that daily occur in my writing schedule. On a bus, in a car, on a wall outside the post office. If I wee one of these guys that needed to have set things in place in order to be able. Write I would be royally screwed; as it is, I tend to thrive in this kind of environment.

In some ways it kind of reminds me of when I first came to the U.S. and was travelling around and writing wherever I found myself: New York, Ohio, Wisconsin, Chicago, Missouri, Indiana, Texas, Florida. It was an interesting journey and I hope it produced some interesting writing; it definitely retired my perspective as I transitioned from foreigner, to illegal immigrant, to legal resident alien, to someone who feels comfortable and at home here.

And how was it at home? Back in England? Well, when I first started out I didn’t have exorbitant amounts of money, so all my art and everything I did was scrawled on the back of scrap paper that dad brought home from work, and for a while in exercise books that found their way home from school.

I feel like I have been a writer in some ways longer than I was ever what you might call an artist. Having a natural facility for art doesn’t make you an artist if you don’t persist in the actual execution of the art. My girlfriend is an artist that lives and breathes her work in a way I only feel I achieve with words. I am happy with that though, to a degree, but it definitely communicates at least. At least I can say that.


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