I Ate Tiong Bahru

Life’s Rich Feast

I'm a writer in Bali, watching long, green banana leaves fearfully twist and sway. I'm an author in Queens, watching snow cover the tires stacked in front of the graffiti on the wall of the garage run by the guy from Ecuador. I'm a novelist watching the doves  on my window sill, the Bastille like a green pin. A screenwriter in my mom's basement wondering why the meth dealer's room is dark.
No money. No money. No money. That's OK,  the first twenty seconds of exposure.
Hugh Howie says indie writers are running the show percentage-wise, but that's like saying on average, everyone is a millionaire when Bill Gates enters a bar. Hugh Howie says reading is bullied by games and movies. Hugh Howie says Amazon is a beacon that minimizes friction. Hugh Howie says write something great and it will sell.
My partner does not know about Hugh Howie. Nor algorithms nor plot points. A skeletal existence brings out the best, the worst. She makes soup from leftover soup. She tells people I'm not here.
Time. Words. Money.
stock made from turmeric, ginger,cumin powder and Japanese vegetable powder (dashi)
jam and bread
hibiscus-apple jam, rosemary bread
  A horse or two in the race...

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