I have a creative gyre where story ideas, fragments, and premises drift, trailing sentences like sun bleached ropes in anoxic waters. Abandoned characters sit on tetherless masses of story, rationing saltines and scanning cloudless skies. All of this exists in my mind, some of it is reflected on various hard drives or, mirage-like, in that strangely named realm known as the cloud. It’s a fucking mess frankly. But it’s a necessary mess. When I write, I can’t cold crank ideas out of nowhere. I ‘m no William Boyd, with two years of research, compass clutched in a rock solid hand, leaning elbow on knee into a brisk wind. It’s not how I create, whether writing or picture making. I need some shit to work with. I guess that makes me an organic writer. The kind of writer that various writing resources, love to shame. Yes, I might write another 100,000 words that end up in the center of my own personal Sargasso. But, they are not wasted words. They are a journey during which I pick up all kinds of curiosities to rediscover later. To wit, recently, I’ve been looking for a new story to tell. This week, wandering from wreck to wreck, gangplank to gangplank, I heard the sound of bees. I met a pale doctor and a woman who searches for people through dreams. And that’s all I’m saying, for now.