Writing isn’t easy. Although, my definition of writing seems to resemble staring at a computer until my eyes bleed out, or deciding that life would better as a lumberjack. Lumberjacks… I really just like the plaid and a healthy excuse for facial hair; it’s a pre-requisite for the entire wood-cutting community.

Circumnavigating the point: I like writing. But it’s totally going to have me getting hit by a bus on Coney Island Avenue, not wearing shoes, arguing with the atmosphere about the use of the Harvard Comma. But this is based on the fact that I may or may not have some sort of grammatical neuroses. This, as far as I can tell, only signifies certain inevitability. Most things I find interesting seem to carry a violent disposition in their relationships. Or I’m an enabler.

I’m new. Which is exciting. I am here as an intern, trying to break into publishing and the book world. Although, I may have been a little too excited, having this new internship. I just moved up to New York a few days ago, from Philadelphia, and I’m really looking forward to the literary scene around here. I figure this is great: so many opportunities, poetry readings, book signings. But I’m not sure where to go or how to start. I will most likely start by annoy one of my bosses, incessantly.

But I found some place for ice skating, so I’m going to do that first.

Nice to meet you,
Calvin Manning