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Reinvention/Here we go.
Okay. Alright. You found me. Or I found you. Either way. Whatever. This is good. Thank you. I’m glad. But still: I’m shaking as I write this. For real.
You know, I’ve been wanting to leap into something like this for a while now, but I’ve been nervous. Reticent. Unsure. And I’ll admit it/ why not? I’ve been afraid. I’ve been scared. Scared to try and ask for money from people like you in exchange for my art, in exchange for writing about my life.
Scared I am not good enough.
Scared you would walk away from me,…from this.
But then last week happened. Out of nowhere/ out of everywhere. I was down and out. Lying in bed. Depressed. Like: curled up messed up. Missing the neon buzzing in my veins. Wasting my time, writing nothing down. And I realized that I can’t be scared about trying to do the thing I love doing the most anymore. Not unless I’m flat out ready to die. Which I’m not. At all.
In a flash of clarity I had to look back at all of the writing I have done over the past decade or so on all the websites I have written for, and on my own blog Thunder Pie, and I had to believe or not believe, once and for all.
And I know that I have gotten better. I know that I have honed the voice.
And I know that I have sharpened the hell out of the goddamn knives.
So. Here I go. A stab at reinvention. Look, I want this bad enough to take your money, man. The deal never gets get any truer or clearer than that. No matter who you are/ I will lay it all out for you. Once a month for free. 4 or 5 times a month if you choose to trade your hard-earned loot with me for once-a-week newsletters delivered to your email Inbox around 9am every Friday morning.
Now, if you are new to Thunder Pie, hello there. I’m excited to meet you.
Here’s what I will offer. It’s pretty simple really.
I will write about me and my life. My world. My kids and my wife, my dogs, the Hondas. Music. Love. Raging blues ripping across my midnight landscape. Fish I will catch this summer.
Graveyards I will wander through, my wife up ahead of me, kneeling down at an old stone.
Toothpick dangling from my lower lip as I listen to the racist lady spout it all off again at the Dollar Tree down the road. I want to shake a tallboy Mountain Dew up and crack it open to explode right under that American flag mask she’s got covering her lips but not her nose.
And I might too. I just might do it.
So you better hit that SUBSCRIBE button.
Because this is going down. And I ain’t afraid of jack shit from here on out.