©Where’s Little Wes?
©No More Angry Trees
©And Now You Know
I’m not an authority on poetry, I’m just a storyteller. I give my time and effort to the linear, to the symmetrical, and to the logical that inhabit the pattern I am weaving in my stories (however non-linear, asymmetrical, and illogical I get) and not to the open-ended, free-for-all realm of poetry. My passion and my purpose are spent on the characters and motives and not on the style used. Yes, I delve in SOC style, but how else best to confront the pool of multi-colored sludge that is the human consciousness; and even then, it is with purpose and logical connections. So as not to lose the reader. Poetry is meant for the illogical, the sounds of the language, the connections they can make that storytellers have difficulty making. Continue reading
“Why did I write? What sin to me unknown/ Dipt me in Ink, my parents’, or my own?” — Alexander Pope
Well, here I am, in another short story class. I wonder when they’re going to critique my story ‘Plague Journal Panda March’. Everyone will probably hate it. I wish I could write a story like her. What’s her name? Jhumpa Lahiri?
“What about you, David?” said the professor. Continue reading
“It is requisite for the ideal artist to possess a force of character that seems hardly compatible with its delicacy; he must keep his faith in himself while the incredulous world assails him with its utter disbelief; he must stand up against mankind and be his own sole disciple.”
— Nathaniel Hawthorne
“Swing hard in case they throw the ball while you’re swinging.” — Duke Snider
Once upon a time, there was a messy little crazy person living in the forest named Meichel. For fun, he wrote stories in the mud, ran around and played pretend, and sang made up songs in made up voices.
One day, he found a paper airplane stuck in the straw. He took up the water-warped thing into his child hands and unfolded it: there, printed out in ink, was a story, and he read the story. It told him of a boy walking the road to the city of Edgemere, a place where you can do what you love. It sounded wonderful, like a better kind of forest than he could ever dream of. And it would only take him no time at all, according to the story. He gathered up his favorite things—his lucky bandana, various things collected in his favorite color, and trinkets he’d found in the forest—and made his way down a road just behind the forest. As he walked, he was nervous, since he was leaving his forest, but he noticed soon that the forest followed him down the road, being just down a little ditch below him. He began his journey. Continue reading
“The writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one. He has a dream. It anguishes him so much he must get rid of it. He has no peace until then. Everything goes by the board: honor, pride, decency, security, happiness, all, to get the book written. If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ is worth any number of old ladies.” — William Faulkner