Wow. I haven’t written any poetry for the last year or so. I was on some hopeless quest to unfind myself by delving only into prose, can’t say I’ve achieved what I set out trying to do. Don’t even know what I mean by ‘unfind’ myself. Too much Pessoa speaking? Anyway, at least I got to finish the first drafts to 4 novels, THE AWAKENING, HOUSE OF DYES, SUICIDE CLUB & APOCRYPHA. No more novels for me this year, going to polish up these four and get them published. Hooray!
Considering how I much I have abandoned other writing endeavours, poetry mostly, I’m going to focus on that a lot, this year. Screenplays too and shorter prose pieces.

This is the first poem I’ve written in eighteen months or so, it’s a bit rough, but I hope there’s still enough of the poet in me resurrected here. Please tell me what you think.

There are things fixed in this world,
that though unrooted, could never be uprooted.
Then there’s things which are wrought
by the brittle heel of old mythologies
I don’t know which part my love for her falls —
Maybe halfway in the shadows of both.
Or maybe it’s the sun casting a shadow where there’s no light
or light where there’s no shadow —
All I know is, I’m a fool caught in the eyelashes of a blind world
For, love is blind and all that.

Love is also death,
dearth to the enterprising nakedness
of my crass naivety
Love, her love, is a net that catches
the vague articulation of my flair
Her love — not our love — is beyond
the haughty fling of intellectual whimsy
to which, me and my contemporaries — if I can call them that,
indulge with contempt.

Love, her love is rain on a Sunday afternoon,
totally unexpected, but cool to the trickling drop
just chilly, but snug enough to be comfortable,
enough to want just a little more.
Love, her love, if it were a home
it would be a home built on forgiveness given
before forgiveness is required.
A communion of undreamt trespass.


I’m Trusting The Soup. #01

Woke up at 4 a.m. Today. Like finally, after many weeks of setting the alarm at that ghostly hour and never ever even finding my hand at the snooze button.
But waking up was just the first hurdle. Now sitting my ass down and writing, that’s the trouble. Been this way a couple of months, actually, mmaybe the whole year, come to think of it. Skipping days, not finishing what I start, finding content in writing waayy below my usual word quota, like I have the luxury to, that’s why I was setting the alarm at 4 a.m. Thinking I could at least put in two hours of penmonkeyship before the rigours of the real world consumed the rest of my day.

This negligible surrender of my dream of writing has put me in quite the predicament, my day job’s winding up in like a month, almost no savings I can talk of, and a stack of unfinished novel manuscripts. My horizons have contracted, so to speak. Without rushing into despair, and existential angst (which i’m quite sure I’m already in) I had to make a quick evaluation, had to listen to a ton of motivational tapes, not writing resources, but motivational tapes, because along the way, the passion for the dream kinda lost urgency… a bleak thing to say about the only thing that brings you any joy and defines your life, but yeah, that’s how deep down the rabbit hole I’d delved.

These motivational speakers, Les Brown, Anthony Robbins, Zig Zigler and Earl Nightingale have been a tremendous help, really. Enough is enough, I said to myself, I need to snap out of my rut and get writing. God knows the task ahead of my is Sisyphean, but I have belief and conviction and am acting as though it were impossible to fail, I’m doing the work. Everyday, all day, all night, 25/8.
I’m staying primitive, I’m trusting the soup, swinging for the seats(Inspiration Courtesy of Steven Pressfield’s DO THE WORK) and all that…

The problem is all this dread and sense of urgency has now put a lot of pressure on my writing to do quite impossible i.e. Miraculous feats… the process doesn’t matter now, nor intent, only results. This is my own personal declaration that nothing’a going to stop me now.

How to be a writer in the year 2014

How to be a writer in the year 2014

Chicago Literati

1. Write a lot of lists.

Lists are cool. Lists are in. Lists are super easy to digest, and take very little of a potential reader’s effort, thought, or time. Throw a few funny gifs in there, and ignore the sinking feeling in your stomach when you realize gifs will eventually replace even the measly word count you’ve been assigned.

 2. Be famous for something else.

So, you wanted to write a novel or, god forbid, a short story collection? Who do you think you are—James Franco? Because unless you are literally James Franco, no one cares about your short stories. You better start filming those reality TV audition tapes, or pray to whatever higher power you believe in that your arm is bitten off by a shark.

3. Build your network.

For your sake, I hope you have a famous godfather in the entertainment industry, because if not you will repeat…

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