I've got nothing.

Seriously, absolutely nothing... like... jack squat. I've got nothing. I've been sitting here staring at this blinking cursor for a couple of hours now, white-knuckling this week's newsletter into existence. Writing something. Hating it. Backspacing. Writing something, again. Hating it, again. Backspacing, again. And, I've just now decided to call it quits. I'm trying to be better about giving myself grace when the magic isn't there (versus shaking the living shit out of the wand in hopes to muster up a few measly sparks). And, so tonight, I'm putting this "grace" into practice. I'm not writing tonight. I'm off to my girl's place. We're going to make a cocktail and watch the storms roll in. Your's, [Cole Schafer](. P.S. Don't worry this week's newsletter isn't an entire flop... I've dropped in a couple articles down below that I wrote earlier this week when I was "feeling the magic". [Say hello on Instagram.]( Wanna support this ink-slinger? If you'd like to support this newsletter, here's how you can... 1. You can [tweet me]( (free). 2. You buy my 1st book, [One Minute, Please?]( ($25). 3. You can buy my 2nd book, [After Her]( ($25). 4. You can subscribe to [Chasing Hemingway]( ($10). 5. You can buy my writing guide, [Snow Cones]( ($97). 6. You can buy my freelancing guide, [$100k]( ($97). 7. You can hire me to write for you (depends). [Or, you can buy me a fucking drink ($15).]( That time infamous singer-songwriter Kris Kristofferson landed a stolen helicopter on Johnny Cash's lawn to sell him a song. Kris Kristofferson –– try saying that 3x, fast –– flew helicopters in the Vietnam War. After the US got the fuck out of Vietnam, Kristofferson took a part-time job with the National Guard to pay the bills as he attempted to make it as a singer-songwriter. In addition to his work with the National Guard, he also worked as a janitor at Columbia Records, where Johnny Cash was signed. From time to time, he’d run into Cash in the hallways and he’d slip him cassettes of his music (which Cash later said he’d chuck in the lake on his property). Desperate to get his attention, here's what he did... [Mayday.]( Joe Dirt's firework rant about "whistlin' bungholes" and "spleen splitters" is grease poetry at its finest. The term “grease poetry” is one I first read in [Wright Thompson’s Pappyland]( where he uses it to describe the dialect of the late, great moonshine runner and stock car legend [Junior Johnson](. Growing up in Southern Indiana, I have a special place in my heart for “grease poetry”. You can hear it spoken in roadside breakfast joints, local dives, liquor holes and all those gas stations that double as beat-to-hell mechanic shops. An example of grease poetry spoken on the big screens was Joe Dirt’s infamous firework quote where he fires of a list of 4th of July explosives that hum like a spoken word poem… *Joe Dirt is typing now* " You're gonna stand there, ownin' a fireworks stand, and tell me you don't have no whistlin' bungholes, no spleen splitters, whisker biscuits, honkey lighters, hoosker doos, hoosker don'ts, cherry bombs, nipsy daisers, with or without the scooter stick, or one single whistlin' kitty chaser? " I’m going to reach for a lesson here –– even though I wrote this entire fucking piece to amuse myself –– but when writing, don’t just write to folks in New York City and Los Angeles. Write to America. Speak their language. ['merica.]( P.S. If this newsletter made you weak in the knees, you can share it with the world by selecting one of the four icons down below... [Send it.]( [Send it.]( [Tweet it.]( [Tweet it.]( [Share it.]( [Share it.]( [Post it.]( [Post it.]( Copyright © 2021 Honey Copy, All rights reserved. A while back you opted into a weekly email called "Sticky Notes". Remember? If not, you can always unsubscribe below... and risk breaking this writer's heart. Our mailing address is: Honey Copy 3116 N. Central Park Unit #1Chicago, IL 60618 [Add us to your address book]( Want to change how you receive these emails? You can [update your preferences]( or [unsubscribe from this list](.