I am a big Hunter S. Thompson fan. Sometimes I think it’s an odd fit. I’m a feminist (I could argue that seeking out misogyny in prose written by “dead white males” is for a tireless sort, which I am not.) I don’t do psychedelic drugs. I’m not trying to be a journalist.
A few months ago I won a scholarship to The Antioch Writers Workshop. It took place mid July in Yellow Springs, Ohio and I tripped it from Columbus to go nerd out at book camp (or something.) I spent my time in writing seminars, specialized classes for poetry and nonfiction and trying to find Dave Chapelle (I didn’t.)
My first tattoo was done by the very talented Andy Johnson at Long Street Collective in Columbus. I chose a typewriter to reflect my wannabe-writer ambitions. It is also an homage to Hunter S. Thompson, who, despite his drug induced semi-mysogynist ramblings, holds a special place in my heart.
As a child I wrote short stories with long, drawn out descriptions of food. This would have been forgivable had I written the rest of the story in the same amount of detail (apparently plot was never particularly important.) This uneven focus has continued into my adult life.