Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Pulp Non Fiction

He has poured it all out; emptied his memory cache; committed it to paper with the intensity and urgency of a man on a mission.

It's raw; literal mulch; fertile fodder waiting to be sized and pressed into a book. And he has asked me to help. We don't know the shape or weight of what it will be; but the writing will reveal itself.

I can't wait Pops. Bring it on. Send it over. And let it be.

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