The creative, correspondence between Chris and Jason: “writers”

J Mills,

I took in a whiff of red wine and I was moved instantly from New York to D.C, to Paris and back to the Bronx. When I opened my eyes I was smoking a cigarette and from my balcony I could look down through my imagination and into the spectrums of hindsight and nostalgia. These are feelings that plague young souls, but they do something else also. They entice the mind to find another place and another time. If a great experience was had there, then a new experience is on the horizon and all of that romantic posh.

Where do you go when you have slept enough to make sense of your clear mind? Down the street and further I suppose. Definitely not to class though. Here is why. Today in philosophy my professor spoke for 15 minutes about how much smarter than the class he was. Literally. A girl in class decided to ask a question and make a point. Hers was dismissed in an insult-laden response from the professor. So I said, "Why don't you let her finish?" The professor said, "Because I do not have to." "Well I guess I don't have to be here either then." I replied. I got up to leave and the professor asked: "And why are you leaving?" "Because your ego is so goddamn loud I can't hear your lecture," I answered. Then I left.

I read your article on your experience at Campaign for UN Reform and it was good. I liked how you described the people on the train on the way to work. Those damn Mondays that were actually Thursdays but were actually drunk days from the events of yesterdays.

The historical surrender of our lives there will make something of a cigar-filled daydream decades from now.

What has Pittsburgh been like? I keep daydreaming about driving to Chicago to see Paul and then going further West and further away from credits and Krasnows and bad dreams of James Brown incarcerated and George W. Bush flying fighter planes into the Epcot Center and a 99 cent hot dog on the corner of Faith Street and misery. If I drive that way, I'll pick you up. We'll stop at Otterbein College and scare the shit out of Kyle. Lord knows will fit right in if we wear SS uniforms and fake Hitler moustaches. Alright alright...

Chris

* * *

Christopher Gorman,

As I’ve become a regular editor down at The Duquesne Duke, I’ve come to appreciate the creativity and originality that Mrs. Iris Krasnow tried to suppress. There are only so many poorly written articles; only so many quote-less, drab feature stories written by freshman with no writing experience; only so many news stories about senseless acts of high-school-style vandalism on campus, pulled fire alarm incidences in lecture halls and Greek Week, karaoke champions.

Other than those lone, late Wednesday nights in the newsroom, I’ve been focusing my mind and soul on The dream: one day, walk down that literature aisle of that Barnes and Noble or a Borders and find “Mills, Jason” in the “M” section.

Often, just like in D.C., I keep my roommate up until the early hours of the day -- smile on my face; Dylan in my ears; clicking away at these keys.

I once told my Dad The dream -- he laughed. My friends pretty much had the same reaction. I guess to them it’s just some kind of pipe dream, like: I want to play beside Bernie Williams in right field; I want to become the next communist dictator of Cuba; I want to be a writer. I’m not sure.

Quick Fiction, might have laughed; I wasn’t there when they read my submissions, but they were unimpressed and sent me a slip of paper back in my SASE envelope that basically said, “Sorry, we do not have enough room in this seasons issue, and we do not have enough time to help advise or edit your work. Better luck next time.”

The world is an objective place. It took me five beers and a little whiskey to remember that. I just need to keep reminding myself.

Rome wasn’t built in a day; if Iris Krasnow can have a NYT Best-Selling book, God-damn-it, so can I! Optimism will prevail!

Pittsburgh is a lot like how I described it: three murky, brown rivers; tall buildings, stained gray from the pollution that still lingers from the day of the steel mill; a sky that always seems to be clouded. That much hadn’t changed in my eight month absence from this place.

But, the seemingly depressing landscape conjures a lot of inspiration. There is history and culture and roots in this city. It’s not like D.C. -- a city created and thriving on stupid, bitter political bi-partisan battles and monuments erected for dead, American heroes (those heroes often times being politicians). I never felt inspired in that city except for those late night when red wine and weed was coursing through my body; my computer at my fingertips; a bitter, angry, spoiled Republican tossing and turning, huffing and puffing behind me, more worried about the health and well being of a fucking horse rather than anything else in the twisted, messed-up world we live in.

You were there, you know what I mean.

If you’re heading out west, stop and pick me up in Pittsburgh. We’ll trek across this vast wasteland of America and follow the footprints Sal and Dean and Carlo made so long ago. Stop and get Andy too. It will make for a good story.

How’s the job search going?

Stay inspired, keep fucking writing.

As the French like to say (no, not “We hate doze stupeeed Ameri-cans!”), “Bon Saw!”

Ex-UN reformer, rock star and “roommate,”

Jason Mills

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