‘Be bold. But not bold, be fucking BOLD.’

He just writes so beautifully. I don’t know if it’s honest, but it’s a version of honest that I like. When I read his books I feel like I could write my own.

“Sometimes I sit, stare at the wall, the wall is white.

Sometimes I feel too much, feel like I’m going to explode. All of me, all of what is inside of me, anger sadness confusion pain insecurity fear loneliness, heart soul consciousness, whatever words for some of what is inside me there are no words to describe, it swirls, it races, it taunts, it moves to the surface and pushes pushes, all of it pushes. I feel like I’m going to explode. I scream. At the top of my lungs. Long and hard, scream so that my lungs hurt, my throat hurts, my face hurts. I scream into pillows. I walk to the lake scream at the water. Stand in a park and scream into a tree.

Doesn’t matter where I am I just need to fucking scream. It makes me feel better.

My life is a simple routine.”

It’s a bright, shiny morning indeed

So, this is sad, but all it would have taken to boost my spirits at my new job was an extra cup of coffee.

I’ve been reading “Bright Shiny Morning,” by the notorious James Frey, the last couple days. I was reading some comments about it online today and it seems it’s loved and hated in about a 50/50 ratio. I’m on the love side. Frey writes with goofy, half the time non-existent punctuation. And though the first couple pages throw you off, you realize it just makes the story flow better. So after his little this is a memoir, oh wait, I mean novel faux pas with “A Million Little Pieces,” Frey made sure to have his publisher put a helluva lot of disclaimers stating BSM was fiction.

Halfway through the book, I realized it reminded me a lot of the movie “Crash.” The book is completely unapologetic, telling the tales of various people who are either moving to Los Angeles, or have lived there their whole life. The people he focuses on include a young Mexican-American maid who gets over her insecurities, two 19-year-olds escaping their small-town life trying to make it on their own, a homeless man who lives in a bathroom and loves his life, and a self-absorbed narcissistic movie star who enjoys trysts with men, though has the world believing he’s hetero.

Interspersed throughout the book are historic facts about Los Angeles and compelling exposés of the lives of gangsters, homeless, crack whores, prostitutes, heartbroken, poor, hungry, rich, happy, soul-searching, lost individuals trying to achieve the American dream. Some make it, many don’t. But it’s not one of those didactic, I’m teaching you a lesson now run with it, books. It just simply is.

Well, I haven’t finished it yet. I have about 50 pages to go, and unfortunately I had to go to work this morning. Where I am right now. Filling time, filling time…