No, Not Really. (enjoy the fall)

I’m thirty one years old. Yeah. OK. The year is 2012. Yeah, and..

I’m Taking the time right now just to update myself (and readers ha!) on what I’m doing as far as writing right now. It is September 19th 2012, that’s about one of the few things I think that I know for sure. Ha. No. I know. The date, at least…

So I’m finishing up that novella, that started as an experiment. It turned into a six-day writing binge as I wandered four cities, thinking and writing. I ended up with about twenty-seven thousand words, cut about five thousand and have to do some re- writes on scenes that allow me to call it a complete vision, fully linear, in a sense, and readable as a straight arrow of a time traveling novella. I will release it on my pseudo press, West Vine Press, and once again, I will make 100 by hand.

I’m excited to finish it. I’m also once again in the process of being an artist on the run, and don’t worry, not sure who would or does, but I always have a good soundtrack and I’ve learned some street smarts that keep me invisible to regular humans over the course of being a student of society, and then as I am now, being a dork writer. I always end up on my feet, because I’m werewolf of a monkey of a writtin’ kinda writer man. Blah blah. Words are fun. 

This novella, will probably be less than a hundred pages, and this will be the first part of my upcoming release. I should be done in the next couple weeks, and the second part will consist of a print version of my fragmented prose, which you can find linked under my contact information.

I’m working for maybe the last time in my hometown, and I know, like everybody knows, that I have to get on the move. I don’t know why, but it is what it is. Part of me chose this, and part of me never planned on anything to go the way it has. I just try to work hard to justify calling myself anything, but like Albert Camus said (paraphrase), on the day that I’m only a writer, I will quit writing forever.

I’m a humanitarian, a peaceful artist dreamer, trying to become a better person in the strange time he gets to live. And life is weird, and I guess somebody said it seems that I had a plan, and really, I don’t, not really anyway.

Life is beautiful, love comes before art, and at times over the summer I tried to hide that, and the heat brings darkness within and out of me, a type of undefined youthful anarchy that i’m still trying to mature from. Maybe I never will. 

Although times of plight turn into artistic desperation I do know that I will never be able to run from, and forget about, the goodness that is life, because it’s a first truth; one that, just once in a while, brightens the true nature of humanity upon my art in which I hope to transcribe with mere words.

I just wanted to write something, and I’m not even sure if that was the original outline that I had in my head for this post, but as my fingers started moving, the cold wind dripped my nose, and well, it just happened. Back to the editing.

Thank you, and enjoy the fall. Peace!