Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
Sean Dietrich 
I am in the hotel elevator with a guy and his dog. The dog is wearing pajamas. They are white pajamas with polka dots.
“Say hello to Kevin,” says the man with the dog.
Kevin wags his tail, looking at me. Waiting for my salutation.
I like you. I like everything about you. I like your smile. Your teeth, no matter how crooked. Your physical shape, no matter which shape that is.
We walked into a packed Waffle House. All booths taken. Two cooks and two waitresses running offense. “Let’s sit at the bar,” said Morgan.
The year was 1939. The month was September. Only days after World War II broke out. The woman was so moved to tears when she read the headlines of war in the papers. Her first thought was, “Another war?”
With everything going on in the world, with all the wars, international conflicts, and high-stakes political maneuvers, I’m sure you’re all anxious to hear about what’s going on with the problem of legalized raccoon ownership in Tennessee.
I have a thing for Norman Rockwell. When I was a kid, I collected Rockwell memorabilia in the form of calendars, picture books, and posters. I clipped illustrations from books and plastered them upon my bedroom walls.
I’m in a hotel lobby. It’s breakfast. We are waiting in line for our gruel. Guests congregate around the coffee urn like puppies at the teat until they drain the urn and leave nothing but dregs for us tired, huddled masses.
There were tattoos on his forearms. Not the new kind of fancy tats, multi-colored and expensive. These were a few grades below battleship tattoos. Crudely done. Almost like the inkwork inmates give themselves with guitar wire and BIC pens.
I was blue. I had just watched the news. Wars were raging. Bombs were dropping. People dying. All God’s children were bickering over the price of rice in China in the rain.
“My son, Jason, is getting married on Friday, and I am responsible for his wedding toast. I’d like some wisdom to pass on, the only problem is, I don’t have any.”
I woke up, staggered from my bedroom, and made coffee. I pulled out my phone, and commenced to scroll social media.
On my screen, a young woman, in pajamas, dancing in her kitchen. She was maybe mid twenties, with a pierced nose, and extremely hairy armpits.
Sometimes, as a writer you will find yourself as a guest on TV shows promoting stuff. You’ll be seated on a television set that is an exact duplication of a family room. Except, of course, this family room has nuclear studio lights that cause third-degree sunburns.
I’ve chased you all over the US. I visited your grave in the Washington National Cathedral, I got chills there, too. I performed in a historic theater where you once lectured. Chills. I drove past the house where you died in Connecticut. Chills.
Dear Young Writers, You know who you are. You’re reading this on your phone, computer, tablet, or maybe a soggy newspaper you found in a gutter.
“Dear Sean,” the notecard began. The handwriting was very neat. “My name is John. I’m 14 years old… And I know your really busy but my dad committed suicide like yours. Maybe you can tell me what to do or be my friend. Love, John.”
I am trying to understand this world. Within the last 5 years, there have been nearly 40 major shooting incidents at houses of worship. In the last five years, there have been 181 major shooting incidents in schools. And those are just the “major” ones.
This week the headlines were pretty dim. Fighting in Iran, surging oil prices, and just when you think current events couldn’t get any worse, it’s time for the Oscars.
As a kid, I remember going to the beach. I remember walking the shore, wearing my little swimsuit. I remember the glorious and inimitable joy of having sand in my crack. My biggest objective, of course, was finding seashells. All children care deeply about shells. This is the main reason you visit the beach as a kid. It’s about looking for shells.
Dogs know stuff. Yes, I know they’re just animals. I know their brains are only about the size of tangerines. But I’m telling you.
The Girl Scouts were setting up a folding table by the doors of the hardware store.
“Omigod,” I said to the cashier. “It’s March.”
The cashier looked at me flatly.
“Debit or credit?” she said.
“This is March,” I pointed out again. “Don’t you know what this means?“