Summer in Slow Death: Writing from the Edge of a Small-Town Mind
A dispatch from Floresville, Texas, where creativity withers and devils linger
Another night behind the computer. Middle of summer. Floresville, Texas. This place is dying more every day, and I feel like just being here is speeding up my own death. It’s not awful, but for 43 years I’ve heard the same thing: “Floresville is going places.” Yet the cycle repeats, nothing changes. Depressing doesn’t cover it. But that’s not why I’m writing.
My wife’s making supper. I’m trying to be creative without diving into pills and vodka. Peace isn’t easy to come by in a place like this. And yeah, maybe that’s on me. But when you’ve seen the wonders of the world, coming back to the “regular world” feels like being buried alive. Writing about magic from inside a box is no easy feat.
I mostly live in one corner of my apartment, stuck in front of this desk. The silence of doom has become familiar. Sometimes I break it with music—Ozark Mountain Daredevils, Pulp, George Jones, Bach. Depends on the mood.
I grind out words—sometimes 10,000 in a day. Maybe two people read them. I claw for attention online. Crickets. I’m trying to make a living doing the only thing I know: tell a good story. But the algorithm’s blind to it. So I end up writing for myself, and that doesn’t pay the bills. Every second feels like a moment wasted on the road to death. That’s not something you “get over.” It’s something you have to face.
Adventure used to drive me. Now the biggest thrill is a royalty check that isn’t pocket change. Sometimes I find peace refueling in San Antonio. But mostly I’m stuck in a busted boomtown, hanging on. Somehow.
People say I should make friends, socialize. Tried that. Turns out the explorer’s life is too much for small-town minds. They ask dumb questions, assume you’re lying. So you stop explaining. You just exist. Misery loves company—maybe that’s why people stay here.
But when like minds gather, things go stale. Nobody wants new ideas. Bullshit begets more bullshit.
I’m a journalist. Always have been. But in a place where sameness is sacred, creativity suffocates. The vibe dies with the people. They live, die, leave behind tombstones and maybe a kind word—if they’re lucky. It’s not like this everywhere. Just here. Just in places like this.
So I sit in silence, the TV murmuring from another room, wrestling small questions. The devil in my head says death’s better than this. The practical side reminds me it’s not. Every day’s a mental brawl. Even strongmen suffer.
Everyone’s got problems. Geography doesn’t change that. It’s about how creative you get with the hand you’re dealt. Maybe I need to get more creative—start fighting the devils in my mind, my world. They’re everywhere. They build small towns. They write the algorithm. They target the strong, feed the weak, and lock the rest of us in place.
And yet—I’m a glass-half-full guy, believe it or not. I’ve worked through worse. Sometimes it’s religion. Sometimes whiskey. Usually, it’s writing something like this, tossing it into the wind, and waiting for sanity to return.
That’s what keeps me going. That’s what keeps me here.