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Albino (part one)

I began writing Albino two million years ago. I had an editor then, who lived a few blocks away. We would meet for breakfast on Avenue A, quietly forking into home fries as we discussed the structure of the story - the economy of objects. A dollar bill was not just a dollar bill in this story, it was connected to thought and action, to music and transformation. This was the story that told me there was a whole book to dig into, mining for diamonds in the backwaters of America, turning over the ugliest rocks to better understand relationships between fathers and sons.

Last week, I stumbled across a call for submissions - not for a journal, but for a podcast where the work of new writers was read aloud. I thought back to a reading I had done of just the first few pages of Albino - a messy hero's journey,  a young man and a guitar, a man with loss and regret, a man that still had something to lose. That reading went well, enough that I felt a strange elation stepping off the stage i…

a new song

I don't have a good explanation for how it happens, just that it does. The guitar may be out of tune. It may be 2 in the afternoon or 3 in the morning. I dig into random piles of notes, fragments, phrases, turns of language. No matter what, it evolves into a confession. Even when you lie, you are telling the truth about something. The admission, the coming clean, it surfaces even when you try to keep it hidden.

Walking in another man's shoes offers a strange freedom. Most of my clothes came from the Salvation Army when I was growing up. I wore other people's suits. Maybe I never stopped.





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