Top of my Head
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Write with moral abandonment. Edit with puritanical zeal.
I am sandstone. Multi-colored, multi-layered, built from years of sediment
deposits that have fused into one. I was born a Catholic, grew to be an
Existentialist, and will most likely die seeking the greater truths.
As a rock on the shore I stand against the tide of change. In my youth, my
beliefs were carve into that stone. The only problem is I did not carve them.
The stone was set upon that shoreline by my parents, my teachers, and
others who convinced me this is who I am.
The tide is reality. It is the world. Like the ocean it is all around me, crashing
against the stone. And as time goes on, it washes away the carving on the
stone. But not all, some of the carving is deep in the stone, and even after a
lifetime the writing's still visible.
The tide also changes the shape of the stone. It smoothes the sharp edges,
rounds off the jagged points. And as the water recedes, in times of calmness,
it leaves behind new sediments. New beliefs that adhere to the stone and
adds to its color. So the stone is constantly changing.
deposits that have fused into one. I was born a Catholic, grew to be an
Existentialist, and will most likely die seeking the greater truths.
As a rock on the shore I stand against the tide of change. In my youth, my
beliefs were carve into that stone. The only problem is I did not carve them.
The stone was set upon that shoreline by my parents, my teachers, and
others who convinced me this is who I am.
The tide is reality. It is the world. Like the ocean it is all around me, crashing
against the stone. And as time goes on, it washes away the carving on the
stone. But not all, some of the carving is deep in the stone, and even after a
lifetime the writing's still visible.
The tide also changes the shape of the stone. It smoothes the sharp edges,
rounds off the jagged points. And as the water recedes, in times of calmness,
it leaves behind new sediments. New beliefs that adhere to the stone and
adds to its color. So the stone is constantly changing.
| I Am A Stone |
| The Life OF A Writer Is |
The life of a writer is never letting history go by unnoticed. 9/11/2001.
Remember the lost, pray for the rest of us.
The life of a writer is developing tunnel vision to see through the mountain
of rejections to find that one nugget of acceptance. Thanks Mom
The life of a writer is deciding to get a real job after staring at a blank page
all night. Deciding to quit this job and finish your book.
The life of a writer is most gratifying when we see others reading our work
and ...
The life of a writer is writing. When we are not writing we are thinking
about writing. When we are not thinking about writing, we are dead.
The life of a writer is moments of shear genius surrounded by hours of
rewrites and questionable ideas.
The life of a writer is a solitary existence filled with thousands of people,
some real.
The life of a writer is the difference between what I know and what people
think I know.
The life of a writer is turning fiction into reality and taking the factual to
the fantastical.
Remember the lost, pray for the rest of us.
The life of a writer is developing tunnel vision to see through the mountain
of rejections to find that one nugget of acceptance. Thanks Mom
The life of a writer is deciding to get a real job after staring at a blank page
all night. Deciding to quit this job and finish your book.
The life of a writer is most gratifying when we see others reading our work
and ...
The life of a writer is writing. When we are not writing we are thinking
about writing. When we are not thinking about writing, we are dead.
The life of a writer is moments of shear genius surrounded by hours of
rewrites and questionable ideas.
The life of a writer is a solitary existence filled with thousands of people,
some real.
The life of a writer is the difference between what I know and what people
think I know.
The life of a writer is turning fiction into reality and taking the factual to
the fantastical.
Weekly blog is now on
eatsleepwrite.net
eatsleepwrite.net
Because I'm too lazy to
maintain my on blog page. And
too smart to reinvent the wheel.
Links to my blogs below.
maintain my on blog page. And
too smart to reinvent the wheel.
Links to my blogs below.
Killer With Three Heads
Head Of The Family
Chapter 1 – Time To Kill
The sign over the door of the two story brick building on the corner read, Sons of Italy Social
Club. Or at least that’s what it said years ago before five of the letters fell off. But it had been there
long enough that the missing letters, the O’s and I’s, left their mark on the brick façade. The
blacken glass windows looked out to the east and north while double steel doors angled between
them faced the busy intersection. They swung open letting in the bright morning sun, they weren’t
locked. The Sons of Italy Social Club never closes. The blinding daylight drew everyone’s attention
to the thigh high black leather boots, red micro-mini skirt, and rabbit fur jacket that barely clothed a
raven hair ebony Queen. Five men and a barmaid had to squint to focus on her until the doors shut
and the light gave way to a more normal view.
“Marone!” said the old guy sitting at the card table facing the woman. The other two middle
aged men nearly snapped their necks doing a double take. “You got the wrong place honey,” he said
slicking back his gray and black dyed hair. “This is a private club. You want the bus depot down
the block.”
“I think I’m in the right place,” she cooed as she sauntered deeper into the room. “I’m here for
Benny, it’s his birthday and I’m here to make him a man.”
A skinny pimpled face boy standing at the pool table voice cracked with uneasy arousal, “I’m
Benny, but my birthday ain’t until next week.”
His pool partner, a slightly older boy, slapped him in the back of his head. The woman
stopped at a table two feet from the boys. She put her foot on the seat of the chair, so they could
see right up the skirt revealing everything she had to offer. She kicked the chair and it slid across
the floor to the pool table. Benny’s friend hustled him to the chair and pushed him down in it. The
three card playing men positioned their chairs for a better view and one of them called out, “Red,
put on some music.” Read More...
Head Of The Family
Chapter 1 – Time To Kill
The sign over the door of the two story brick building on the corner read, Sons of Italy Social
Club. Or at least that’s what it said years ago before five of the letters fell off. But it had been there
long enough that the missing letters, the O’s and I’s, left their mark on the brick façade. The
blacken glass windows looked out to the east and north while double steel doors angled between
them faced the busy intersection. They swung open letting in the bright morning sun, they weren’t
locked. The Sons of Italy Social Club never closes. The blinding daylight drew everyone’s attention
to the thigh high black leather boots, red micro-mini skirt, and rabbit fur jacket that barely clothed a
raven hair ebony Queen. Five men and a barmaid had to squint to focus on her until the doors shut
and the light gave way to a more normal view.
“Marone!” said the old guy sitting at the card table facing the woman. The other two middle
aged men nearly snapped their necks doing a double take. “You got the wrong place honey,” he said
slicking back his gray and black dyed hair. “This is a private club. You want the bus depot down
the block.”
“I think I’m in the right place,” she cooed as she sauntered deeper into the room. “I’m here for
Benny, it’s his birthday and I’m here to make him a man.”
A skinny pimpled face boy standing at the pool table voice cracked with uneasy arousal, “I’m
Benny, but my birthday ain’t until next week.”
His pool partner, a slightly older boy, slapped him in the back of his head. The woman
stopped at a table two feet from the boys. She put her foot on the seat of the chair, so they could
see right up the skirt revealing everything she had to offer. She kicked the chair and it slid across
the floor to the pool table. Benny’s friend hustled him to the chair and pushed him down in it. The
three card playing men positioned their chairs for a better view and one of them called out, “Red,
put on some music.” Read More...