He writes: about life and love and culture, pop and not. His heart is: often broken and bleeding. His brain is: usually scattered and overtired. His body is: not what it used to be, but neither is the world around it. He loves: women and film and the written word. He reads: Wallace and Sedaris and Kesey and Almond—and too little. He eats: the flavors of the earth. He drinks: and drinks some more. He sleeps: too little. Success has: eluded him for some time. His work has: been rejected from such prestigious forums as The New Yorker, McSweeney’s, and Brevity. Those rejections were: just. Those pieces were: shit. Those pieces were: works in progress. This format is: stolen from Dave Eggers. Stealing is: wrong, on occasion. Yes, Josh Covell is a writer and he wishes that weren’t such a four-letter word. Writing is hard and exhausting and insane and egomaniacal and terrifying and not at all what he expected. There is a muddied, infinite space between concept and completion, and he is learning to be more comfortable in that filthy great expanse. It is where writers have to camp, where they have to find a plot of land to chop trees to build a cabin to keep them dry and warm to give them a place to live out their days crafting the perfect combination of words. He has not built his cabin; he doesn’t know how yet. But he wields an ax and that’s a start.