Sean Beaudoin

Enough excellent writing to fill a large tube sock

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So some surgeons, who I guess I even paid for, took parts of my knee away and replaced it with parts from somewhere else and apparently in about six months I will walk normally again. This is the sort of thing that can take a toll on a blog. It's easy to forget how important walking is. And not having a sort of floating, everpresent throb of pain as your chaise-side companion. Neither is condusive to cranking out PRODUCT, in the form of new books, and I am therefore feeling a bit less than whole on the artistic end as well. Deep down we are all in need of some mixture of Pity, Hydrocodone, and Hand-Delivered Meals. Whether this need is metaphorical, or part of our daily existence, it is  a matter of having something like a hamstring graft to push them into the open for our pained examination. Or the examination of our therapists. I don't have a therapist, but Stan does. Where is Doc Felder when you need him?
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"The curves are a smoke screen, I tell myself. Inside she’s a bag of hard edges. And I, Ritchie Sudden, am prepared to eat sheet metal."

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