The Nameless Decade

As it draws to a close, this turbulent string of years is still without a proper name. A teacher once told me that it was called the "aughts". Some research suggested that it was sort of a name that was not really accepted but rather placed because nobody could come up with anything else. Well nameless decade, you have been fraught with disasters, some happiness, and a few really good films. I'm not sure if I'll miss you nameless decade, or what fruits your events will yield, but your gone, and that's a good thing.

you say rivalry, i say war

263 words was all it was, but I've since been considering the importance of them actually being in print. I'm setting forth my artistic voice. While a simple little Moxy for Newcity is not very significant on a grand scale, it has left me with some food for thought. No longer is my concept of an audience some abstract vision of those who I envision being enthralled with my work, but it's a very real group of people that might have picked up that recent copy. Now I'm faced with the challenge of continuing to submit to them, but the question is about what should I write?

Another thing, Andreas says this is a rivalry. I say he's thinking too small. This is a knock-down, drag-out brawl. This is Ali v. Foreman. This is Lennon v. McCartney. This is acoustic Dylan v. electric Dylan.

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.