Ha! “Writing comfort zone?” I’m never comfortable in composition. I prose in self-doubt, self-denial, and an ass load of anger. And I write bad poesy in an even worse mood. A part of all this ire is technical. I can’t spell, and I’d play by the rules of grammar, if I knew what they were. So to the technical, add lazy. And to the lazy add ready excuse. I’m an autodidact.
And that’s why I write angry and sans any “comfort zone.” I’m convinced if I had only graduated high school, had the opportunity to explore all my latent vices as an undergrad, and then put depravity to test on a year long tour of Europe, by the time I hit grad school I would have been a Nobel winner in waiting. Stockholm bound by my mid-forties. A fine age to ravage a bevy of literary groupies.
So for me, never a comfort zone, and now I’m losing muscle tone, and leaking memories. And spilling your bourbon ain’t like spilling your guts, and to write from your gut hurts too damn much. So I post little piss-ant posts, on my blog, where every post is the last post. Which may be a clever tag line but doesn’t speak to what I really want, make that, need to write.