Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

I keep working on so many writing projects that mostly will never see fruition, spreading myself so thin in order to avoid imposter syndrome and the inevitable focus on what I see as failures. My whole life has been one long struggle to communicate coupled with an obsessive need to document my struggle through different writing forms and ideas. Lately, I have been contemplating the book while finishing up a few articles.  I am writing this post to keep myself honest and focused. My ultimate goal is to put together the proposal and the introduction before the end of summer. I want to conclude the two projects I am working on, but I have to wait for the inevitable comments. I published one book chapter this year, but another was canceled. I am waiting for additional feedback on two journal articles. I was hoping I could meet my other writing goals by summer, so I can focus most of my time on researching the book and beginning to finally draft it.  Today I am dealing with carpal ...

“ Seventh Son” A hazy mist covered the ground in the cemetery. Green saplings bent to the ground. I walked solemnly, looking behind me every couple of minutes. My chest beat and my legs felt tense. I had been meeting my brother in Shadows Grove Cemetery for several years. Well, I guess I couldn’t really call it meeting him. He’s dead. I just walked to the cemetery to talk to him. He was the only person whom I could really trust when he was alive. You see, my dad died before I was born and my mom -- well, she’s crazy. She tells me that I’m crazy for talking to Randall. She says, “He’s dead. When are you gonna realize that? I raised a dip shit kid who talks to fucking angels.” She isn’t all that bad, though. At least, she doesn’t hit me anymore. As I approached his plot, I saw a big and nasty crow. It cawed at me and flew into the grey sky, then alighted near Randall’s gravestone and dashed back into the sky. The sun was beginning to make me tired. I felt it on my skin and s...

Right after school Cecil grabbed his shotgun from his father's rifle cabinet and headed out the door. He took his old BMX out of the garage and slung the gun over his back. He pedaled the bike as fast as he could. Small for his class, he was still waiting for a growth spurt. His grandmother had told him that sometimes it happens later in life. But he wasn't waiting until eighteen or twenty-one. He had outgrown his shit hole town already. He spent most of his time out on state land shooting squirrels or just walking. There was nothing at home that equaled the thrill of just being out in the woods, nothing that equaled the thrill of being among the pines and oaks. He was master of all he surveyed out here. No one came to bother him.             He pedaled his bike down Wilson Road past house after house all of them empty because no one was home from work or school yet. Out here the paint was chipped and the yards were filled wi...