If I sell one book for every time I’ve heard: “Wow, you must’ve had so much time to write in prison, I mean, hey, gee, wow, talk about time . . .” with ‘time’ said almost wistfully, I’ll be, well, I’ll be pretty well off.
Time to write in prison – sure, that would be what’s left of the day after – working 8-10 hours to afford luxuries like tooth paste; playing basketball to maintain the all important image it wouldn’t be all that easy to hassle me; dealing with psychotic explosions from perennially unstable inmates and staff (left); reading court decisions from inmates fighting their sentences. (That would be all of them).
In the time left, I would try to find a corner, niche, tree, whatever was most remote from the maddening crowd, and write. Eventually, I would be found out by someone and it would go like this:
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