It's no surprise that I've been silent recently, and as much as I'd like to claim lofty reasons, the reality is that I simply haven't been writing.

Odd, isn't it? I've finished my first semester towards an MFA in critical studies (CalArt's pretentious way of saying 'creative writing,' since there's very little lit theory involved) using nothing but recycled work. I won't be able to pull that off this semester, since I've already submitted pretty much every workshoppable piece. It's a little disheartening to see that, after 18+ years of knowing how to use a pencil, I've produced less than 30 pages worth workshopping. That's not modesty. Considering I often wrote over 20 pages a day in the last four years, you can understand why my work's been pretty well-received on this site.

I used to tell my friend J that the secret to revision is to take out everything you don't need, and then half of what you do. Half is an understatement. The way I see it, a red pen can never be too vicious.

=SRSmith, the new 365 overlord, has been cracking his whip in a rather humane manner and bribing me with canadian coffee and computer parts. For those of you who followed 365 and missed my last entry about it, we completed the year as hoped and then launched into a second year with a mixture of staff stories and reader submissions. It's been going great so far. If you can write a speculative fiction story under 600 words, pop on over and show us some love. We always like to hear new voices.

Some people say that the way to break yourself of writers' block is to sit down and force yourself to write, but I did that for a year, and now, the words feel mutilated. Sometimes I feel like there's blood on my hands. In workshops, reading photocopies of other people's stories, I move my thumb and expect to see a dark fingerprint in the margins. This is a crime scene. A chalk outline in lead.

It'll come back eventually, though. It always does.