I’m really busy creating and learning to be an artist lately, a stranger to where he grew up, just a human that is torn by his hometown, and my books are quickly coming along. I’m really tired and about to go to bed, but since I’ve been diligent in posting on this blog on a daily basis I wanted to post something, more so to just get some ideas out of my head, directions that I’m heading off towards this first week of another month that for some reason is named April.
My smith corona ran out of ink, and I’m working on the docks this weekend, so I should have some money to get my paper supplies. Things I want to write about this week: An essay about Albert Camus when he traveled to the united states, a couple of tales of times when I really hurt myself, words about pain.
Within the next week I’m also going to post a plug of my past books, that I will be taking the first runs out of print when I release my newest books. I’ve self published something myself every year since 2007, and as I’ve grown as a writer and a reader, an editor and a book maker, I want to do a re-edit, and a visual makeover for each one of my books, besides a short collection I published last year called traced measurements and other paragraphs. The books are good, but riddled with youthful errors, and I still am clumsy at times, but I want people to read what I want them to read, and look forward to working on the second editions.
Other than that I have a ton of work to do this week, but for now, well I need to get some sleep, drink a beer, smoke a couple of ciggs without reading words, and then try to close my eyes and not dream about the mark I plan on leaving on the history of literature. alright. I will leave you a quote from Albert Camus, the author who opened my eyes to the power of the written word. k. bye.
“Sad to still feel so vulnerable. In 25 years I’ll be 57. 25 years then to create a body of work and to find what I’m looking for. After that: old age and death.”
Adventures In American Writing 