I think that weaving words in bite-y ways without sounding sooky is a true talent. As I work my way through Novel, I’m trying to be conscious of not sounding too angry, not sounding too “wah”.
Naturally I have composed a tale of tortured lovers in a failed attempt to make a life in an unfamiliar land. And it hurts blog family, oh Lord is it rough.
I figure I released love poems three years in a row, I penned the most abundant syllables to describe violent and gold feelings. Next thing I’ll put out will be my first back to front story like book. I’m pretty excited.
Now that I’ve been blah-ging for nearly four years, it’s fascinating to see the way different projects I dove into have influenced the voice of my recent creative work. And considering that I have been feeding myself for the past three years writing for members of Parliament and chief executives – that somehow has it’s own impact too.
I’m not writing a Memoir and I hope it isn’t perceived as such. I want to write something that feels like it could be anyone’s Memoir. Words that remind creatures of things and invite head nods. And a few gut punches.
In Shakespearean times my belief of let love be better than anything and suffering as bad as it cane be would have been perceived as the passion of an Artist. These days, I get called bi-polar and people try to medicate me.
Strange times blog tribe, strange times.
Thank goodness I have expressed existence through language since I learned how to hold a
writing device. I can’t imagine how else I could express the collages of experience human’s manifest daily.
Baffling.
I watched a dope documentary with ice coffee earlier, after 6am Central Park explorations with the puppies.
Back to book.