Writers don’t have off days.

We only have 24 hours in a day,

7 days a week,

52 weeks in a year,

365 days in a year,

We don’t have time to fuck around. Death already has her time locked into our schedule so we have to manage every day like it might be our final day to write one sentence or one last paragraph to end our novel.

I love the song language that is my mother tongue.

I love the poetry, literature and cultural rhythms and melody sewn in every sentence I otter a loud….

I love to write. So I’m doing the shit every day. I have no stop to my spit. I have no pause to word flow I’m pouring out.

Wooo. I’m on fire son. The Bard Avon is laughing his ass off in sheol in the halls of the legends of old at the madness of my speech and bravado.

Taste the day. It is in every breath we breath. In hail slowly and savory the day and above all else….

Fucking write the damn book already all that wishing upon a star is Peter Pan Never Neverland bullshit.

Let me help with the first word…

Fuck.

Warm Regards,

Guardiandogg