Pictures Of A New Book: Part Twenty Two

Inside invisible envelopes holding up a modern generation of writers, thinkers and planners we find a dependency to mobile digital devices. The one time pleasure of listening to the rhythmic clicks of fingers moving faster than a human mind delivers; the typewriter lies in a mental state of dusty dizziness bent and rusted like a ghost town found in the center of a Steven King novel. Thumbing words onto a screen is Texting. For decades people didn’t recognize Rap and Hip Hop as music. It’s acceptance in today’s society isn’t about the people of 1985 but two generations of open mindedness that have had to weave and duck through Gangsta, low grade recording from home studios and Poets without knowledge on how to create a hook for non-fans to sing along with. As much as I want to believe no book will be entirely read in 140 Twitter characters. Time will somehow prove me wrong. Inspiring, influential and mind blowing to me are the Face Book joggers that can take an entire page and make it less than what it used to be. I didn’t handwrite my new book Scrambled Eggs because of laziness but more along the lines of exploration. Could I maintain single thoughts and pictures using modern digital techniques? The biggest negative responses have been from lovers of long chapters and mile thick books with real pages who continuously complain of my delivery being too much for too little space. Which I find extremely funny because my last book Conversation With The Devil which went to numer five in the UK was stopped at 53 pages because of my passion to reach readers with barely enough time to lay down a book to pee. You can’t do that anymore! I know too many who’ve dropped their smart phone in the toilet.

Pictures Of A New Book: Part Twenty One

A writer's biggest critic is a bathroom mirror image. Learning to cope with a constantly available opinion is an unending entanglement. My mirrored image passions for challenge. It's the voice that calmly says, "Do it again. Nope. Do it again. Now again and again." I've given the critic a special place to air my errors. 5:40 AM before the sun rises. Inside daily journal scratches that voice of potential injury is given space to question, offer leadership and or step away while screaming, "Idiot!" I call him The Interviewer. Anything goes but nothing can be brought up or arrive unexpectedly during any other time of the day or night. If in doubt or buried in writer's fear... I make it clear that the bathroom mirror image means nothing to me until tomorrow morning. Let's meet before the sunrise and share in the value of respect for each other's observation tower. In putting together my current book Scrambled Eggs the Interviewer has played a tremendous role in keeping me focused on reality versus fantasy. As writer's we tend to lean hard on designing scenes that could or might happen. My goal in this book is to gift the reader with every reason to believe it is happening right now. Trusting the critic is a dangerous step. Loving the mirrored image isn't conceit or having too much confidence. In the end those printing books or digitally embracing e-books will have the final say and the last thing either of us want to face are both of our tails stuck between our legs.

Pictures Of A New Book: Part Twenty

Pictures are truly worth a thousand words. This New York City hotel is where my two main characters meet for the first time without heavy protection. Being in this section near lower Manhatten allows them to keep their personalities open without having to run away from those who might recognized them.

This is the area where they share breakfast created by a man known only as The Bagel Man

The main characters facination with New York City is its skyline blessed with vines, colorful flowers and trees. He looks at the woman he loves and says he'll know when he's been kicked out of Heaven...it will be the day he can no longer visit such incredible places of beauty like this.

Pictures Of A New Book: Part Nineteen

Handwriting a new book versus the Art of typing onto a flat faced computer screen. I've never kept hidden my passions to hold a writing instrument. To feel it breathing on a sheet of paper lights my imagination on fire. Books though don't come in handwritten form. Instantly my way of leaning words to the left then right or ballooning them up to be larger than life would freak out the reader whose heart loves size twelve Times New Roman. When transfering the handwritten to digital status the personality of my writing self changes. The same scene but delivered by two ways of communicating. The Handwritten: The cracks in the sideway of a New York City street are to ants and rodents what earthquakes create on opposite shores. But, when a man of multiple journeys walks over the raised jagged edges, a piece of him falls into the earth with high hopes of finding food that shall inspire a passerby to pick it like a flower and place it in their heart just to say I need you. The Re-typed: Rips in the concrete, tormented lines in a city street; they are to ants and rodents what volcanic activity brings to a man, his wife and rootless children. What grows to be of the man on multiple journeys, he that strides above the spiked boundaries of gashes on city streets? Pieces of second-hand drop freely from John into the naked earth with elevated anticipation of sighting a participatory passerby. Like John, an enthusiastic affectionate soul of flowers, spur-of-the-moment melodies and what little is left, a smidge or just barely a thieves pillar of peace. While using a writing instrument words and thought tend to flow freely. Once behind the blizzard white canvas of a computer screen...I'm gifting the perfectionist with fuel. Without proper discipline I could spend a week working on the same scene.

Pictures Of A New Book: Part Eighteen

My first book Halloween 78 was penciled into reality. Once finished I sheltered each page with a sheet of hairspray. I've never shared a positive relationship with ink pens. Without a doubt they'd explode. I think it's because my unborn history knew one day I'd dance only with a nib. In doing so I've never filled the bladder's of a writing instrument with ink. There's something completely musical about dipping the tip in a sip of the nearest color available only to write two maybe three sentences before returning. The bad news...ink stained fingers. The positive...through an entire 24 hour period the subconscious says to the soul, "I can see you wrote today. Thank you for not quitting." My new book Scrambled Eggs wasn't handwritten with a nib. The John Lennon from Mont Blanc is a rollerball and still had a way of staining the untouched edges of this vivid imagination. Pictured is the writing instrument I've dubbed No Name Wood Pen. Having no name means I don't have to live up to being anybody but me. You should see my personality change while using my Mont Blanc Agetha Christie. It was the only writing instrument used while signing my first book in stores across the Carolinas.

Pictures Of A New Book: Part Seventeen

With each passing day God moves through me in ways I can't explain. He likes me not being perfect because it makes storytelling a song for anyone to sing when clouds of rain decide to spit outwardly. I don't believe you learn to write in school. You were born to write and teacher's with bright red pens become the first of many mountains a simple thought is required to move through before reaching the intended set of eyes vowing to heal a broken heart.

Pictures Of A New Book: Part Sixteen

I laughed out loud in church on Sunday. Elevation front man Steven Furtick tried to explain what it's truly like to be given the reins of a new book idea. "It's very exciting! The words flow. Once the idea is put down on paper people ask where they can buy it. No! I have to go back and edit. They think writing a book is nothing more than throwing down a bunch of thoughts and then you're off on a book tour. You're always facing deadlines and changing minds. Writing a book isn't a project. It's a process."

During my current process dubbed Scrambled Eggs...spent with no cash return are the past three days. How many books have you set aside because the first paragraph gives off a scent of nothingness? Writers live in a time zone still unborn. Locked but not lost the storyteller fine tunes the hairbrush knowing it'll soon be whittled into a comb.

Pictures Of New Book: Part Fifteen

Once free from the teen years life inside the realms of reality introduced me to several different writing characters. My first wife was a brilliant writer! Except she had a tremendous weakness. The act of story sharing. Forget the book! That's the final step. Everything she put down on paper had to be read immediately. Followed by, "What'd you think?" Eventually the most simple paragraph became her worst nightmare. One person could see, feel and hear what she was painting in words while another would shrug their shoulders and walk away. Sharing what you create is 100% natural. I find tremendous inspiration in writers that stop hiding their works of expression. Once free for the chosen few to view; the pain of delivery strikes in ways that can easily silence the journey. It requires tremendous discipline to keep your writing away from judgment. Even though your bestest friend in a whole wide world claims they love love love it... The very moment those ten itty bitty fingers touch the computer keyboard the imagination takes hold of the replay tape, "Did they truly like it or were they just being nice?" Disconnection while writing a project is a safe place. Nobody understands it. That's ok... you are the writer and they can wait to read it with the rest of the world.

This photo is the handwritten being turned into digital. Another discipline is learning to trust the original idea. While rat a tat tat tatting on the keyboard my thoughts are constantly caught in emotion, "What if I bend the storyline just a little, then a little more then...oh crap! I have to change the ending!!!!"