(…the process…and the First step is typewritten, just letting it pour out while I’m tapping my feet and having fun and just a you know make believing. Next is the first edit on the Toshiba cobalt blue, and then I reread and read and read it over about four in many strange out-loud voices. Next I use a couple of programs that I downloaded and plays back my writing, one is a female human robot voice, the other is a weird man’s voice who has some strange mutt-toned accent. And sure, I post this because writing and editing are one of the biggest adventures of the mind that I have in Adventures in American Writing. I post for a tangible record for the future writers to consider as part of their writing regiment. Cool. And with that said now for a short section in order to show you a couple of my steps on the spiraling and out of control creative process that I’ve, in the metaphysically sense, created without a blueprint to guide me on my way. And oh yeah, the picture on the right, well that’s my first book, written in I belive 1989, the year Tim Burton’s Batman came out, and well I’ll get to more of all that jazz in a future Adventure. k. Bye)
Adventures of a Dying Young Man
Getting towards what humans call the end
[And I hear voices and see ghosts. I hear the kinds of sounds that come up slowly from the wood steps and shake the gold lock that holds a door in place, an old wood door that leads down to the basement. The lock isn’t even necessary, and there’s a deadbolt on it, and I don’t see why, cause everyone knows you can’t lock out ghosts. And well nope, I don’t believe in ghosts, but even I know that if there were real such things as transcendental ghosts well then locks wouldn’t a’ do you any good at all.
And I hear sounds that aren’t even happening in real-time. I hear the sounds of musicians in the symphony breathing as they change notes within the composition that they’re licking into the recording microphone. I hear the sounds of aluminum buildings shaking in the storm, and well yeah I might be crazy er something, but I see tracers of light falling down from a star that no longer is even there. I see dimensions that humans can’t see, space/time that only them dogs are said to be able to see. I see ghosts and hear the sounds of the night, and sometimes I see those sounds and hear those visions in the daytime when I’m sitting in a chair waiting for sleep to come and eventually and hopefully and just a’ safely tuck me into my closed-eyed and slow breathing dreams.
I see all kinda things that are not even human, and birds always come too close to me and they even build their nests right next to my windows and feed their worms to their baby birds right in front of my face. And these birds don’t fear me like they do most people who just take shovels and knock those poor bird-homes out of places that are inside of their human homes. I always hear these sounds of animals and such sounds well nope they never sound like fear, and well yeah, this is just how my life has always gone, and I don’t get it cause man I tell ya’, a lot and a lots of people want me to just hush up and do what I’ve been told, and why, well nope, they never say why.
“What are you doing henry? You’re so aimless” they say. “I’m listening.” “Listening for what?” “Well I’m… never mind” I say, cause well yeah, I don’t want to be seen as crazy. I don’t want to tell them the truth that I’m listening to sounds that they can’t even hear. I don’t want to tell them that these ghosts follow me around, and that snow, those dark snow clouds, well yeah, the clouds oh how they were really coming down on that drive home. It was the last Christmas where all of my family was together…] To Be Continued in the Book Adventures of a Dying Young Man