>Hamilton's Accumulation of Echoes

>I think I'd be ok being a writer.

I really really don't mind deadlines, and I think I could handle them better if it were my JOB to handle them better. I'd love waking up early and stimulating my creativity with coffee and the dim light cast by the dawning sun filtering through remaining dew residue in the air.

I'd enjoy having a column in the paper or being a contributing writer to a magazine or drafting chapters to send to a publisher. I'd get enormous pleasure out of being that eccentric man who has crazy hair, talks in paradoxes but speaks the truth, drinks coffee like its water and carries around a little moleskin journal in which I jot ideas as they come to me before I forget them. I'd carry around a tape recorder to dictate the ideas I don't feel like writing, and I'd hang out in coffeeshops and Panera Bread. I'd spurn ideas in my captive audience of freedom and individuality no matter what the topic.

I'd slip in little subliminal commands to prepare my army of zombies so that they can defend me when everybody else's zombies take over the world.

I'd do tv interviews when Regis or Ellen read something that sparks their attention and I'd talk about my past and how it shaped who I am. I'd speak of my wonderful family, of the friends I have made and lost, of God and His unflinching perseverance and how nobody is a lost cause. I'd promote my sponsors, plug my favorite bands, travel the world signing books and baffling people with my mysterious few words, for few words clearly means that they're important, and making them cryptic unmistakably means that unraveling their meanings is crucial to bettering your life.

Until then, I think I'm stuck with this stupid blog.

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.