The start of a long career

So a short piece I wrote was published by Newcity. It's about self expression to the inebriated masses at the Gallery Cabaret's Sunday open mic. I suppose it would be in my best interest for people to read this which you can do so here. You're welcome.

the world outside of worry

I partook in my first event independent of school. On Friday at Joone Studios, Andreas, Dan Paul, Jeph Porter and myself took to the stage and formed a story of sorts. The series is called Night of the Living Story and there is a zombie host. The plan was to do them once a month so it feature a good selection of writers across the bored. It was a really cool thing to be a part of and a unique venue.

Semester winding down. Last Wednesday I wrote 5,200 words in twenty-four hours so I didn't exactly feel like continuing the chore up here.

The gold at the end of the tunnel

Collection of poems about Freud printed: check
Deadline for Redheaded Stepchild: passed
Ten minutes short film script: check
Feeling a strange sense of accomplishment about my writing: check

While I would just like to spend the next eight weeks sitting on my ass and watching the wonderful new TV that appeared in my living room, now begins the task of assembling this Redheaded Stepchild. Raising it from a baby, a baby left on my front doorstep causing a deep sense of resentment rising from my dissatisfaction with my obligation to raise it.

If you have any interest in my series of poems entitled The Adventures of Super-Ego shoot an email to zachary.willhoff@gmail.com.

50 Years of Cold

Not sure how many people realized this, but last weekend (14-15) was the fiftieth anniversary of the Clutter murders in Holcomb, Kansas. The family's brutal end was the catalyst for one of the best pieces of literature in the twentieth century. It makes me think about how old everything becomes.

Newly fascinated with learning 90s pop songs on the acoustic guitar. "Don't Speak," "Sex and Candy," "Bitch," all classics.

I now have an entire pumpkin pie in the fridge to devour. Wish me luck.

Things that make me feel like John Malkovitch

1. Saying my own last name. I suddenly imagine an entire restaurant full of people who look just like me, and it's scary.

2. Asking permission for anything involving animals. Lenny made me overly cautious.

3. Eating Oreos

4. Thinking about my newly started memoir. Even saying the word makes me feel like I'm in Burn After Reading and spilling incredibly trite description of a flowering love. That being said, it wasn't working as a novel. Plus, this is weird, but thinking about it as a novel wasn't forcing me to be honest enough. As a memoir, I have an obligation to be honest, in turn, creating better writing. Getting into that creative trance where the memories don't register in the brain much before they are transferred through the fingertips.

Andreas with his NaNoWriMo is pushing me to be less lazy. All play and no work makes Zack a terrible writer.

Played Apples to Apples last night and I still believe the Cold War to be much more frivolous than Hollywood.

Working on a dark comedy script about a young boy confronting his father's drug addiction. Sounds hilarious, right?

Also working on a series of poems about Sigmund Freud. Title still to be determined. Already have plans of printing a small number of copies.

They have me surrounded

There are these dangerous figures that have encircled me. They click and intimidate me and make me feel inadequate. They refer to themselves as "writers" or maybe it's "righters?" I can't tell, it make take extra research. Feeding almost entirely on crispy packaged wafers of potato or tortillas, they thrive for some force called "NaNoWriMo." I'm just reporting what I hear. I feel a little like Jane Goodall. They use their fingers like twigs to extract Twizzlers and Lay's from their bags, never glancing away from the thing in front of them. Their behavior is contagious, and has left me often leaving my studies to draws long strings of letters at a time. I even submitted one string 834 words long. If you're looking for me, follow the trail of crumpled paper.

No one was killed

From 5 pm to 9 pm a tree was grown in my living room. By 1:30 am, it was chopped down. It was a big tree, and it fell hard. It was in no forest, but was nonetheless heard by no ear. This if for you, tree.

Blank of all carvings
Shipped to Sweden only to
Come back as a desk.

"Reincarnation"

Leave the vodka alone.