Ralph Pullins

I knew you had the blade when I turned my back on you the straight razor with the pearl handle, stolen from your grandfather's old shaving kit I knew you were behind me, knew you were not going to let me walk out and when I felt the cold steel whisper on my throat, I knew this was the way it had to be: your breath, hot in my ear, saying I love you. So I'm in a mood.  I am filled with anger, and when I am, this is what comes out. In the white room, there is silence, solitude  When I cut my wrists, words pour out, black and white, seething, choking filling the space, building a new world,  one in which I am not welcome I live a good life.  Solid, responsible. Why, then, this fire inside? Why is my head filled with these terrible images? I feed the pages to the flames, one by one,  the lives I created burning to ash, I can hear them cry out page after page, burning cities consumed by fire I will never be free, will never be empty I will never be alone I have insurance.  I have a r

I knew you had the blade when I turned my back on you the straight razor with the pearl handle, stolen from your grandfather's old shaving kit I knew you were behind me, knew you were not going to let me walk out and when I felt the cold steel whisper on my throat, I knew this was the way it had to be: your breath, hot in my ear, saying I love you. So I'm in a mood.  I am filled with anger, and when I am, this is what comes out. In the white room, there is silence, solitude  When I cut my wrists, words pour out, black and white, seething, choking filling the space, building a new world,  one in which I am not welcome I live a good life.  Solid, responsible. Why, then, this fire inside? Why is my head filled with these terrible images? I feed the pages to the flames, one by one,  the lives I created burning to ash, I can hear them cry out page after page, burning cities consumed by fire I will never be free, will never be empty I will never be alone I hav

One of the unexpected side effects of declaring yourself a writer is that you are then expected to know something about writing and give handy advice to novice writers as if we are not all just winging it and hoping for the best.  I have no real advice except this: finish your shit, work until it is done.  Other than that, do whatever works for you, whether it is writing in the basement of a monastery at midnight or while driving a eighteen-wheeler across country or on the back of a damn dragon as it lays siege to the Impenetrable Fortress of Serious Impenetrability.  Just work, and finish your shit, and then fix all your mistakes, and then give it to other people to enjoy and point out all the mistakes that you missed. Another thing that I didn't expect was that, as a writer, you are then expected to read and write reviews of the books of your friends and colleagues.  You know me, I am supportive as hell.  I love to lift up my fellow man as much as I can, so I wrote and shared my

One of the unexpected side effects of declaring yourself a writer is that you are then expected to know something about writing and give handy advice to novice writers as if we are not all just winging it and hoping for the best.  I have no real advice except this: finish your shit, work until it is done.  Other than that, do whatever works for you, whether it is writing in the basement of a monastery at midnight or while driving a eighteen-wheeler across country or on the back of a damn dragon as it lays siege to the Impenetrable Fortress of Serious Impenetrability.  Just work, and finish your shit, and then fix all your mistakes, and then give it to other people to enjoy and point out all the mistakes that you missed. Another thing that I didn't expect was that, as a writer, you are then expected to read and write reviews of the books of your friends and colleagues.  You know me, I am supportive as hell.  I love to lift up my fellow man as much as I can, so I wrote and shared m