Luke Kennard

"Is there a secret to writing?" she asks, poised on the edge of a bar stool. I imagine Veronica bangs, a smart, black dress (they all wear black in London, right?) and chic, thick framed glasses of some sort.

He leans back ever so slightly, tumbler resting just under his cupped palm, left arm resting on his leg, inviting. He pauses to think, but knows the answer immediately without the pause.
"Write every day. Be patient. If possible don't have an Internet connection in the house."

Luke Kennard is a gorgeous twenty-six year old author and poet. This much I know about him. This much I learn from the Q&A with Sarah Kenison running in today's Guardian. But the rest, the rest I make up, suiting my own writer's need to think and imagine. I know next to nothing about this stunning young man (think Johnny Depp and Robert Downey, Jr., but I see that he's a writer, he's a hottie, and best of all, he gives the kind of advice I like to hear. Later, when asked if writing gets easier after time, his answer, "It always feels like starting again - like I have to relearn everything I thought I'd got the hang of," is something that I can completely relate to. After a day spent reading the Columbia Journalism Review, the Believer and assorted other literary magazines and losing myself on the 7th floor of the Harold Washington Library (7 is Lit and Journalism), and thinking about my grad school decision, I'm walking home from the gym, clearing my head and prepping to come how and write some more.

What is it that I seek, as a writer? How do I live this life, as a writer? Everyone affirms my decision and proclamation that that is, indeed who I am, but what does that, exactly, make me? Hearing Kennard's thoughts on the subject are confirmation that at least, if nothing else, in my flounderings and shortcomings, I am, after all, at least writing. Trying. And if like him, I "Sometimes I just sit there screaming into my hands," well, at least I know I'm on the right track.