I spent many years as a strictly ink Writer. This was actually a silent protest against publishers, critics, and pretty much the rest of the world. You see, it was critical that I wrote for mySelf and no other. I still believe that once you start creating Art for other people instead of as a reflection of who You are… something gets lost.
I have no idea where all of my writing books are. I do know, however, that every writing book I’ve had pre-2002 has been thrown in the garbage by an angry Italian mother that was very unhappy when her youngest daughter moved out of the house fairly unannounced, twice.
Ok completely unannounced.
It’s been ten years since I started running away. And exactly like the first time I reached a point where dealing with anyone in physical form proved to be too much for my spinning head… I still keep two suitcases packed. One of clothes. One of books.
Having all of my writing thrown away not once, but twice, has had an effect on me that I’m still making sense of. I think it’s contributed to me not caring or bothering to keep track of what I scribble. It’s like, I write something down – get it out – move on.
This is the part when an industry person is supposed to start paying attention to me…
Now that I’m putting together my first collection, I can’t help but think about certain things… like the 300 page writing book I lost on the subway back in 2001 when I was off my face. Or the two dozen books tossed around my present residence that I haven’t opened in years, and the ones that have disappeared in between.
The anthology is coming my beloved cult members.
… hold onto your hats.