Last Friday was my 37th birthday.
On Saturday, my wife and I had dinner to commemorate in Manhattan with my parents. My parents have taken, in recent years, to giving us (my brothers and I and our families) presents that they’d found for us at estate and garage sales that they felt fit us - our interests and such. It’s a very them thing to do.
Anyway, this was my dad’s present to me this weekend, frame and all. We’d just put it up in the basement on Sunday.
"Oh Captain, My Captain," by Walt Whitman
In grateful memory of Robin Williams. Rest in peace, you funny funny man.
Artists don’t talk about art. Artists talk about work. If I have anything to say to young writers, it’s stop thinking of writing as art. Think of it as work.