cuddly wedge head, Spin!
Willie war boy / party girl
bully back-up lights
reason rules the day
rose petals through noiseless stream
Scottish monarchs ruled
over the heather and hills
Haggis, Kilts, and Blood
Big climbing mountains
train for Everest, K2
alpine makes its own weather
rain, snow, cold, isolation
is where I’ll soon be going
ice floes breaking up
Wet brown bears fishing
flying meals must be tasty
at play in the falls
amazing flying rage; boom!
–get away from me
feelings will fail you
real love is a decision
heal first, then move on
Kiss me, great beauty
move me hinge-less thru rapture
love me all my days
the world is not enough, dig!
know thyself, and laugh
There seem to be as many books about writing as there are stars in the sky. Here are a few of my favorites:
Writing Down the Bones – Natalie Goldberg
Bird by Bird – Anne Lamott
On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft – Stephen King
Fearless Writing – William Kenower
A Natural History of the Senses – Diane Ackerman
Henry Miller on Writing
On Writing Well – William Zinsser
One Writers Beginnings – Eudora Welty
Sin and Syntax – Constance Hale
The Right to Write – Julia Cameron
The Spooky Art: Some Thoughts on Writing – Norman Mailer
Writing is My Drink – Theo Pauline Nestor
A Dangerous Profession – Frederick Busch
The Writer’s Journey: Mythic Structure for Writers – Christopher Vogler
From here on out, I will do my best to write Mystery stories to the best of my ability and if they turn into literary fiction, so be it. If they stay at the level of genre fiction that’s okay too as long as I am better than James Michener. I really can’t stand his writing especially the constant need for the info dump. I might also write Thrillers cuz I like them better than Mysteries.
When I read Hemingway, Steinbeck, Faulkner, Mailer, Bellow, and many others I come away wanting to be a writer. When I read Grisham, Stephen King, or James Michener I want to either be a lawyer, a clock-tower sniper, or just go back to being a mechanic. A writer has to take me on a journey where I forget where I am.
Wild creature, so beautiful
sad lilting eyes
suicide was not your end
all telling touch, electric
radiant love as a rose
God’s perfect gift.
The only thing I have done very well in front of thousands of people is to play violin as a child.