A Mississippi River pearl diver, using a car’s old gas tank for a helmet, prepares to descend into the river, 1938.

FOUND ON FACEBOOK, SOURCE UNKNOWN.
On communication, professional and otherwise.
by David Murray // Leave a Comment
A Mississippi River pearl diver, using a car’s old gas tank for a helmet, prepares to descend into the river, 1938.
FOUND ON FACEBOOK, SOURCE UNKNOWN.
by David Murray // 1 Comment
Yet another mini-masterpiece from Writing Boots’ unwitting resident comic, Elle Cordova.
by David Murray // 1 Comment
I’ve been pretty quiet here at Writing Boots. It’s been a very busy and complicated time at work. But then, it was a very busy and complicated time at work when I was buying my company nine years ago this season, and I was publishing 4,000 words a week here during that time.
I think it’s not me, it’s the subject.
This is just not a very fun time to be writing about writing, for an audience of writers. For writers, there’s been a lot to be quiet about.
What am I supposed to write about this?
“I feel like a fly in a windstorm,” I told a colleague today.
I feel like Ruth, from Ozark:
@netflix me when anyone asks me to do anything #ozark #netflix
♬ original sound – Netflix
And any one aspect of the craziness that I choose to write something about only distracts you from all the other aspects I might be writing about.
And writing about anything else seems trivial.
I’m up at 5:00 a.m. every morning these days, trying to execute the (wonderful) editorial suggestions of my Disruption Books editor Alli Shapiro on my book, Soccer Dad. Those first few quiet hours in front of my YouTube fire …
… gird me for the day’s madness and ground me in Something, Anything, Other Than the Great Calamity. And, anything other than speechwriting. Because this doesn’t feel like a very fun time to be a speechwriter, either. As I said here last week, the sword is mightier, at the moment, than the pen—unless the pen is being held by a lawyer. Oops, doesn’t seem like a good time for them, either.
During the COVID period when we all felt we’d been hit on the head by a cow, I drank a lot of bourbon at night, in order to have a few Waking Hours of Peace.
This little book project works better than bourbon … and makes me wish the book was longer. Boy is old Alli going to be surprised when she gets a 1,000-page manuscript back, retitled, The Rise and Fall of Soccer Dad.
Anyway: That’s why I’ve been a little quiet here lately—and why I forgive myself if I miss posting for a day. I reckon it’s okay, because you’re probably busy these days—and a little quiet, yourself.