drivenbygenes's profile

I have never met a book that didn’t influence my thinking, and imaginative literature is no exception. Haruki Murakami’s “Kafka on the Shore” embodies magical realism in all its glory, juxtaposing the stories of a young runaway named Kafka and a strange old man, Nakata, who has mysteriously lost his intelligence and gained the ability to converse with cats. The novel appealed to my emotions as any well-written story would, but did not shut down my rational faculties. Logic and emotion were li...

There’s a certain stigma attached to being a writer. People react in a rather predictable way when I express my passion for writing. Responses tend to fall into three categories: pity (“Oh, you’re suicidal!”), cynicism (“You pseudo-intellectual, what do you know?”), or sheer confusion (“You write…for fun?”). Though I’m a far cry from Sylvia Plath, I am prone to mood swings and periods of withdrawal. Writing takes soul-searching and contemplation, and I occasionally get caught up in a whirlwin...

There’s a certain stigma attached to being a writer. People react in a rather predictable way when I express my passion for writing. Responses tend to fall into three categories: pity (“Oh, you’re suicidal!”), cynicism (“You pseudo-intellectual, what do you know?”), or sheer confusion (“You write…for fun?”). Though I’m a far cry from Sylvia Plath, I am prone to mood swings and periods of withdrawal. Writing takes soul-searching and contemplation, and I occasionally get caught up in a whirlwin...

He pedaled through the alleyways covered in soot. His breathing, heavy yet wistful, seemed to filter through the accumulated grime. His feet pressed roughly against each pedal—down, and up, down, and up again—working through the motions with ease; a mere observer would see an ordinary man trying to ride alongside life, but one with omniscience would know that he had been on his feet all day. This man didn’t, couldn’t, stride when he could push. “It’s almost eight. Kathy and the kids are exp...

It’s the coldest day of the year. Dipping into the low 30s, you muster strength to yank the sheets off your pale, disheveled figure. Sleepy. You knock over the alarm. Goddamn noise. It’s a universal sound, also the most dissonant you could possibly ask for at the moment. George is working an early shift today; his figure is still embedded in the antique mattress. The kids still have another hour of warmth. You envy them until you remember the unremitting dread of going to high school. Pushing...