A Book Idea I’ve Been Working On Since Seventh Grade

Needless to say (but I’ll go ahead, anyway), it’s one of my more urgent New Years’ Resolutions, to finish the book this year. Hopefully, I have the extra ten days the Maya calendar has denied Mankind, to do so. I’ve got a weird concept, a good hook, and a main character you can’t help but to adore. What’s the holdup; you say?

I don’t know how to introduce such a mind-bending concept in layman’s terms, correctly. I’m going to have to fly by the seat of my pants and trust the whimsical mind I own to take me where it will and drop me gently on my feet. I have (for the first time, ever) no real rough draft or what I call, “the bones”, which is just an outline of what I want to convey in each chapter and where I want to knock my readers’ socks off.

For once, I am going to take the box-full of loose notes, my Encyclopedia of Religion, a  couple of books on the Mother Goddess concept, my Bible, my collections of folklore and its worldwide origins, a thesaurus, and my MP3 player; sit down, shut the door, and write the shit I feel in my soul and find rattling around in my brain. It’ll be bonkers. It’ll be stupid. But, I’ll be damned if I don’t give it a try.

Who knows…maybe it will turn out that this is the way I should have been writing, all along.

One last thing: Are those who forget history doomed to repeat it, or, are those doomed to repeat history, compelled to forget it??


Why do YOU write?

I know why I do and the reasons vary from just having to get it off my chest, all the way to my trying to change the world for the better. I know, I know; melodramatic, much? But it’s true. Deep down, we all hope our words will hit home and help “some strange brother or sister” (to borrow from Bukowski again) in, at least, letting them know that they are not alone. And, in reaching out from a deep-rooted hope that we are not entirely alone, we make connections with all types of people we’ve never met and never will.

I think we sometimes write out of a hope that our words will live on after we go; making us immortals of the Mark Twain and Ralph Waldo Emerson (even, Poe) variety; likewise legends of pen-to-paper.

Either way, relating to our fellow man, for a dream of the occasional instance that these words we slave over will reach them feels like the truest genesis of this (sometimes) art form. Even when we’re only blowing off steam, we are putting forth our selves; our very most vulnerable and heartfelt, earnest selves to be tested and tried, by the rest of humanity.

So, I ask you, why do you write? It remains, to me, the boldest sort of wager.