Write about…

technological advances.

There must be an easier way to do this.

This thought crosses my mind often as I am creating hard cover copies of my books.  To be fair, it is a painstakingly long process, though one that I thoroughly enjoy (for a time).  I feel that making my own books is an integral part of who I am as a writer.  I believe that book making and writing fit so perfectly together.

There are those who would argue that a writer’s time should be spent writing… and leave the book making to those who are gifted at doing just that.

There is a lot of truth to this statement, though to be honest, I don’t think that a writer can truly appreciate their work until they have poured blood, sweat and tears into its full creation.  I find this is especially true when hard cover binding your work.

“this is your voice.” it says.

my mind rattles and
  my eyes shift this
  way and that in the
  kind of way that cartoon
  characters do when trying
  to demonstrate to very small
  children that danger (albeit the
  safe kind) is close at hand.

but this is my voice.  the one
  that i’m using right now to
  speak and i know what i
  sound like and it’s not you.

“fine.” it says with a long drawn
  out sigh.  “this is your other
  voice.”

well now, why didn’t you
  just say so.

a long pause ensues and
  i wonder if i’ve done gone
  and pissed off my other
  voice.
he doesn’t like to be mocked
  and frankly, i don’t quite
  like it when he’s angry with
  me cause then he starts
  singing old country songs
  and it drives me insane.

sorry.  what’s up?

slowly, like a madness
  onto a man,
  confusion blinds…
  makes one swallow
  less effectively…
  makes one indecisive…
  it forces neglect.
days age, becoming years
  and lifetimes till
  finally one looks
  back wondering
  why.
answers are meaningless,
  despite the fact that
  such questions keep
  us from dying
  peacefully.

“I can’t believe it’s been five years already.” she says (one of many times this weekend).

“I know.” I reply, suddenly solemn.  “It would be though… I was on the phones at the time.”

I’d been working at the telecentre as a service delivery agent.

“I remember when Karla came in and told me a plane had crashed into the first tower.” I recount, and though she’s heard the story quite a few times in the last five years, she listens.  And despite the fact that she knows each word I will say, she hears what I am saying.  Her mind is not wandering, recollecting her own memories.  She is there with me completely.

Some will tell you that a poem is supposed to rhyme.  It should not exceed twenty or so lines.  It should flow from the lips like a kiss that was never meant to be.  That it must be punctuated properly.

What these people fail to understand is that not everyone thinks this way.  Still, there is a very large portion of the reading public who do.  What they fail to realize is that certain writers do not flip through a dictionary in the midst of their creativity.  Sometimes they feel the need to write till their fingers ache, creating far more than the usual twenty or so lines (case in point, read Roger Laferriere’s The King and I).  Often, poetry finds power within darkness, without the need to flow gently.  And as for punctuation, well, who the hell cares about punctuation when confronted with a very real emotion conveyed with sincerity.

she walked with feet pointed
  slightly inward, her knees
  angled like those of a
  veteran linebacker who’s
  been struck too many times.
her small frame was solid and
  secure upon this land.
  her hands held a purse
  tightly, though from
  behind, i could not see
  distrust.
still, i could sense it in her
  shoulders… in the
  reflection of a stare
  through a shopkeep
  window… in a sigh at
  a corner, as she waited
  impatiently for a light
  to change… that she may
  walk away from me.

I love to watch people read.  There’s something very engaging about watching their expression change as their eyes pass over the pages.  Children are especially fun to watch, as they have not yet gained the ability to control their expressions… they haven’t nailed their poker face, so to speak.

I think this is why I love to watch people reading my work, though most hate being watched and will go out of their way to appear emotionless if they know there are eyes upon them.  What they don’t realize is that they are taking all of the fun out of the experience.  We want to see their eyebrows raise, furrow or twitch.  We want to catch that slight cocking of the head, a curious look upon their face for a moment.  We live for these emotions.