Thunk… thunk…. Thunk… my brother is a writer. He’s attended every writing workshop west of Salt Lake City, and the instructors know his name now and invite him to read poetry and short pieces at fundraisers for their camps. He goes and they present him as their golden-boy, who was just accepted to Columbia University, the third most exclusive college in the nation—even out of the ivy leagues.

THUNK! He throws cards when he gets writer’s block. Cards, like from a normal deck of face cards. He’s figured out a way to throw them that really hurts if you get in the way. Sometimes he throws three or four at a time. He usually closes the door, and you can hear them as they hit and fly off. Sometimes he leaves the door open. He left a thin white and red welt on my leg when I went to brush my teeth one night.

He planned to major in creative writing. He knew he would stand out, even in New York City. During a summer course when he was 18 the instructor told him "Ren, if you were even 25 I would still tell you this was phenomenal work. By the time you reach that age, you will be published in the New Yorker." Maybe that’s why he wanted to live there.

He writes all the time. My mom said once that he sticks to things that are hard for him just for them to be hard. I don’t really understand what she meant, but ever since then I’ve wondered if he really is talented. Talent verses the rest of us just assuming.

Before he left for Manhattan, he bought a new laptop, a rust-red leather jacket and white aviator sunglasses.

He based his writing career on his admittance to Columbia. The previous October, he and I had taken a trip to visit the campus. He bought a sweatshirt there, and left it in a bag on a shelf in his closet with the tags still on until his acceptance letter came in the mail.

He wanted to leave our small hometown so badly. I wonder if he’s used to the barnacles of buildings, the smell of car exhaust and the rush of the subway yet. He never answers my phone calls. But he always calls me back.