My Yoda in Dagobah figurine is broken. It committed suicide. I don’t know why really. I mean, I give it love and attention. But I guess it just wasn’t enough. Now, all that remains is Yoda and he looks pretty pissed. He is shaking his stick at me and yelling, “Write, you shall”.

Okay, Yoda. I get it. I need to stop talking about being a writer and just do it. We all know that just saying something is half of the battle. So…there you have it. I am a writer.


I think the thing that really got to me today was reading that article about David Foster Wallace in the new Rolling Stones issue. For those of you who may not know this man, he was a writer who suffered from depression. On September 12th, he hanged himself (people are hanged; pictures are hung).


So once again the world looses a tremendously talented author and because of the tragic nature of his passing, he will become even more famous. People will all start flocking to buy the books by the guy who hanged himself. When, in reality, we should all have been buying them before this point.


I am not saying he died because we didn’t buy his books. He suffered from the writing disease (depression) and for once, his life was going really well. One night, a dinner almost ripped his stomach apart and he had to go off his anti-depressants. Now, he leaves a wife and two misfit dogs behind.


I want the world to not love him because he ended his life and that gives him more…I don’t know…literary street cred. I want the world to love him because he was a great writer who let others see the world through his eyes.


I am so sick of people jumping on the bandwagon of things when something horrific happens. Why does it take something so horrible to open our eyes? Why can’t we appreciate what we have in life instead of mourning it when it is gone?


If you haven’t read anything by David Foster Wallace, you are missing out on a great writer. He does for writing what the confessional poets did for poetry.


It just makes me so mad and frustrated that here was this great literary giant and barely anyone knew about him. But sure, if Nicholas Sparks or James Patterson were to kick the bucket, America would be in mourning for weeks. Why do we accept such shit as literature when the real literature just sails by completely under the radar?