Sunday, April 09, 2006


Let us be clear before proceeding:
Keats is God.
Tennyson: a saint.
James Hilton - masterful pulp.
Stephen King,
cheap thrills.
…but Jackie Collins will always be toilet paper.

Manipulate circumstances
made uncommon to life,
yet vaguely teaching a lesson.
Do not shock –
but rediscover the shocking
in the everyday.
Insincerity in living
permissible -
carry over into prose,

Bleed freely,
if not from your soul
then tender vestiges,
understanding derived from the human heart.
It yearns for legacy
even before a single word is penned.
Many tears are shed
when quill to parchment
unmasks self-reflections -
processed by imagination,
undiscovered in process writing.

Forgo the pen for crayon when perplexed,
by epic embarkations,
or solid last act finales.
Absence of experience
derives its sprightly ember domain
from childhood fancies.

At last, the thing,
that misshapen tale,
cries out for representation.
Technically, an art –
artistically – a craft,
…but most authors will concur
that any resemblance
between manuscripts submitted
and final drafts approved
is purely coincidental.


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