Book Birthing

Like everything I have ever done, my first novel is a freak of nature.  Sitting at home, depressed that no employer seemed to see value in me, I decided to figure out how I got to this place in time.  Hoping it would generate answers and clear the path to my future, I began writing about my life, beginning at birth and pulling out old memories I had completely mothballed.  I wrote like a madman, creating a document 70,000 words long and quit before I entered the rough spot I was in.  Little did I know that writing it was a tune-up, but I still saw no clear path out of my predicament. 

Music heals the soul and I am a huge Greg Brown fan as you will see when you read my book.  I’ve been part of an online fan group for years and befriended many over the years and met lots in person at concerts.   Greg has no idea how vast and varied the community he has created from his art.  I met my dear friend, Jan, there through our common interest in Greg’s music and we became online buddies.  One day, she told me she had been invited to study a book written by Julia Cameron called The Artist’s Way and wasn’t sure she should do it.  I had bought this very book a year before at the recommendation of another pure soul I had met through my association of Mr. Brown’s music.  I had read the first chapter and set it down when I got a temporary job working for the Census Bureau.  I told Jan how jealous I was that she was invited to study the book and that she just had to do it.  She took that advice.  What she didn’t listen to was my request not to weasel me into the group.  The ten women members took an informal vote and by the smallest of margins, I was invited to join.  Okay, I don’t really know how the vote went, but I’m certain there were trepidations about letting a guy in the group.

I had never met any of them and I had concerns too.  The leader of the group knew I existed because I had commented a few times on her blog.  Other than that, I had no idea who these women were.  Having never been in an online study group, let alone being the sole male, I followed their lead and introduced myself.  All accomplished artists, I realized right away I was out of my league.  They were in various stages of their artistic endeavors  and careers.  I had dabbled with water color and calligraphy, but knew my art was best served stringing words together, mostly in rhyme.  We began to study the book which encouraged us to let our inner artistic child play.  The tribe, as we call ourselves, began to share their visual art efforts, so I got brave and comfortable enough to expose a short story I wrote.  It got mixed reviews, but all constructive.  Their encouragement led me to share another story I had written a year and a half earlier.  The gates opened.  Curious to know more about the characters, the tribe insisted I write more.  My inner child frolicked and my second chapter was written.  Synchronicity, fate, a freak of nature, The Universe aligned.  I was on my way to birthing a book.  

Creeples

Who are these creeples

That say we’re special people

Then give us their rules

Make us go to school

Try to change us into sheeples

Too many conform

Broken spirits deform

Feeble the norm

They call the rest freakles

Calm precedes the storm

They put lines in the sand

Arbitrary understand

You need papers to cross

They demand

Without them your loss

They are the boss

Who are these creeples

That live on the hill

In their mansions with steeples

Look down at the rest

And call them all dweebles

They are greedy in power

Their souls have gone sour

They have no compassion

They are meeples

Not peoples

They think different is bad

One thing is for sure

There’s only one cure

When enough get mad

They will be had

Writer, Author, Novelist

These are three titles I am bestowing next to my name because I finished my first book yesterday.  It took countless pens, multiple notebooks and a year to complete, but I kept going.  In the beginning, I said I couldn't write a book or even consider myself a real writer.  But thanks to some creative friends, they inspired me to try.  I shared each chapter with them as I finished it and they cheered me on to write another.  They spoke of the characters as if they were real people and thought out loud what might happen next in the story.  I had no outline, no master plan, just my imagination dripping ink on the page.  Some days gobs spilled out fast as a waterfall, others nothing at all. 

With over eighty-three thousand words, it is now a legitimate length novel.  Who knows how many hours I spent creating it, but it was therapeutic to escape from all of the challenges life presented me the past twelve months.  And it was not easy keeping all the puzzle pieces straight as the story developed.  It kept my mind sharp.  The commitment to write a book is enormous, but each one begins with a single word and then a sentence is formed.  And then another and it begins to grow.

Maybe you say my new titles are lofty because it is unpublished.  I will defend them, as no book has ever reached the shelf without a first draft.  My two finger typing skills require much editing and then I will find a way to get it published.  In the meantime, my words will be visually displayed in an Australian art gallery next February.  Completely based on my story, a friend is painting my imagination for her solo exhibition with all new work.  What an honor, I am keeping my new titles.  I didn’t think I could write a book, now look at me.  I did it!

Aussie Speak

Just finished an intensive two month course in Australian.  I love language and the variations of word meanings, pronunciations along with accents.  Here’s what I retained from my study.

I woke up this mahning feeling a little toey in the covas and thought about wanking cos I was alone, but I put on my nickas instead and opened the cootins.  Went to the loo and schowad in wahm whadah.  My clothes weh in the wahdrobe and I put some on.  I walked on the foot path so my shoes didn’t get wet in the mohning dju.  The buhds were singing and the skweerels weh prahncing around.  I went to the stoah and got a trolley to load everything I wanted to buy at the mahket.  My list had tomahtoes, cheese from Frahns, rock melon, chook and bum nuts.  I bought a slab of tinnies too.  Been dry as a dead dingo’s donga lately.  When I went to load the boot, I forghat to buy the googs and lollies. Figured I could just skull the tinnies latah, but didn’t want to be a chucky.  Sawr a cute baby in a nappy with a dummy in ha mouth.  Shoowah is a lot to see he-a on Uhth.  I went to get some medicine at the chemist’s and then to the pageant wheha I bought some fairy floss.  The wind kicked up and I put on my jumpha.  Had a picnic in the pahk and sat on my rug because I didn’t want ahnts in my bits.  My mobile battry died.  Bloody hell!  I wrapped my leftovers in aloo minium foil to eat lateh.  All the bee-ah made me have to have a slash and I went behind the shed.  I was close to being off my face.  It was dahk out, so I got out my torch as I drank a spidah on the deck.  Had my own pahdee pretending I was beyond the black stump.  Sawr the yahd needed trimming, so I decided I’d pull out the whippa snippa in the mahning.  The mozzies were thick last night.  Bloody oath.  Good on ya, bloke.  Oi!  I reckon I will be called out as a dibba dobba, septic tank dag now.        

Random Stitches

Not only do clothing marketers get creative with their lack of size uniformity, they also pull the wool over our eyes with insane product names.  Pants is what my dog does after a good run.  How can one thing be plural anyway?  Generally women put on a wedding, evening, summer or night gown and they are dressed.  When I throw on my blue jean, singular intended, am I pantsed?  That word is not even in the dictionary and it happened to me once at Waikiki and it was the opposite of being clothed.  But, I digress.  Guys are supposed to have pants, shoes and shirts that are dress.  What does that have to do with the traditional cover garment of the fairer sex?  Far as I’m concerned, shoes and socks are feet prisons.  Wearing both is like double lock down.  When I have to wear them, I tie my shoes.  I knot my tie and they should just be called nooses.  Shirts have collars, so we are back to the canine age.  When was the last time you saw an athletic competition with the participants wearing sports coats?  And when did they drop “clown” from “suit”?  I get tube top and t-shirt, but I have no idea where the term tank top came from.  Neck lace makes sense, why isn’t it wrist lace?  They got the wrist part right with the timepiece many wear, but I’ve never heard of anybody having a grandfather watch.  It all seems a little cuckoo.  Sweatshirts, sweat pants and sweaters all imply over heated bodies.  When was the last time you played tennis in those sneakers?  If the mood strikes, I’d prefer not to visualize my mate with teddy or muumuu.  Who is this teddy guy?  Formal occasions demand attire of collars, cuffs, imprisoned feet, a noose and a clown suit while resisting excessive sweating, panting or getting the urge to pick up a racket.  Just random stitches that hum through the sewing machine of my mind.                                 

Meesha and Alex Wedding HD Full

Boy With No Name

There was boy

Who had no name

His parents forgot

And it was a shame

Teacher took attendance

Each day at school

Raised his hand

With each name called

Like a fool

Just wanted a name

Like me and you

He didn’t need three

Or even two

Just one, just one

Just one would do

Like an ant

He roamed aimlessly

Give me your name

He asked desperately

No, no I can’t

He heard repeatedly

Until one day

He met a girl

Who made his head twirl

When she did say

If I can have yours

So he married her

Of course

They went to the bank

To open an account

Teller said fill this form out

Name, address

And deposit amount

Mr. And Mrs.

Oak and a sumly sum

The wrote in

And they were all done

This isn’t enough

Information for me

I need a name in my system

Don’t you see?

 And Mrs. spoke up

I used to be

Priscilla Sue

Angela Marie

But my mama

Called  me Beverly

When my daddy put me

Down to bed at night

He said sweet dreams

Penelope delight

But I married this man

Understand if you can

He is Mr. and I am his Mrs.

So we shall take

Our sumly sum

And put it under the mattress

They walked home

Along the crooked path

Climbed up the tree

Where they took a bath

Bank full of fools

With all their rules

They laughed

Started a family

Babies galore

Named each one ten times

Sometimes more

They didn’t forget

Like his parents did

When he was a kid

Without a name

Is not fun

People treat you like

You are no one