Todd Terwilliger

T.S. Elliot, or somebody who looked a lot like him if you looked at him in a certain way, told me once that April was the cruelest month. Given the temperature the other day in New York City was ninety degrees in the shade, that the city had bypassed Spring all together for a sweltering August, I was, in that moment, almost faint and weak from thirst, inclined to agree. “By god,” I thought, “soon it’ll all be a- a-” “A wasteland”, ersatz Elliot answered, “exactly my point. Breeding lilacs and all that.” I don’t know anything about that lilacs bit, I’m a writer not a gardener. What I did know is that I was already behind in my Script Frenzy daily, weekly, and hourly quotas.

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I was sitting in a small church in Black Rock, Dundalk, Ireland, staring down at a hymn sheet. It was Christmas Eve and I was looking intently at the lyrics to “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen”.
I’m sure I’d looked at the lyrics before (it was always one of my favorite hymns) but, just now, it [...]

I’m sitting here, drinking a cup of Gold Kili instant Chocolate Latte which, frankly, tastes in the neighborhood of chocolate but nothing near a latte, and I’m wondering about this impromptu seven month hiatus I’ve found myself on. There must be a reason, right? Some deep movement in my emotional, sub-conscious tectonic core? No… At least, I don’t think so. That’s the short answer. I have longer answers, of course.