Monday, April 22, 2013
Peter Max stood next to me completely bathed in excitement when discussing the completion of art. Ignited. His soul. The Rolling Stones blasting in the background of the overcrowded gallery show. We shared the commonality of journey. The experience. Pasting rainbows to a blizzard white canvas. Barely one hundred feet. Sixteen years in depth later. From distant dust particles still connected like family. Near but not next to. Where my conversation with Peter made impact. The subject of my newest book Scrambled Eggs unwrapped a brilliantly free set of wings. This is completely sick to jot out in a Blog. Some Writer's hear voices. Other's serve as a tag-a-long. Mystic. Unexplained. Books by the millions try to paint. The deepest of visions. The value of learning to listen. Even if it's just the wind whispering. The core of my writing self. Sifts through no boxes or dark corners. Rarely if ever. Do I return to what is left my by writing hand daily. On that day. Sixteen years in depth earlier. Peter shouted at the top of his lungs. Inside an overcrowded gallery show, "Let it go. Give it back to the universe to share." A piece of poetry fell from me. The 9th day of November 2012. I couldn't explain it. I tried! I ended up lying to myself and others. I fought to set it aside. To forget it! Once it's out! It's not mine! Leave me alone! Don't call me back to the writing place! Poetry. Hand written it was not. Came to me while listening to an instrumental song. By Saturday. I heard different music. A name. "Tell his story," The voice said to me. "But do so in the most unique way. Make it sound like it's happening today. This moment. Right now. And carry with you tissues of many. Because to get it out of you. The way it's meant to be shared. The writer in you will live out each page. As if someone is living through you." I heard a voice. I've pushed it away. Too many times to count. This writer doesn't write autobiographies and or the history of music! I'm just a Poet. Short sentences. To the point. Make it colorful and filled with expression. Make it peak like Peter Max paints. Then something happened. One of my characters. Reached through the universe. It wasn't supposed to be real! It's not supposed to be happening! A book that lacks reality. Base it on possibility. But do so in the most unique way. Last Friday. One of my characters. One of the people. Real. Very authentic. Not necessarily on my pages. This book I write called Scrambled Eggs. I've written it to sound like it's happening today. This moment. Right now. And with me I've carried tissues of many. Because to get it out of me. The way it's meant to be shared. The writer in me has lived out each page. As if someone is living through me. An idiot it must look like I am. Steps on a staircase by way of round about communication. Their voice. My ears. Their history. Iconic. They've no idea that my fingers have penned a story. They. A main character. A pillar in the narrative foundation. To meet we will. And I'll be stuck. Standing alone. Knowing I did what Peter Max shouted sixteen chapters ago. I've let it go. Given it back to the universe to share. And the universe has returned with its own reasons, "Connect the pages. I'll be back when this part of the journey is complete. With more to do of course!"
Posted by Arroe at 2:36 PM
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Putting personalized handwritten words on display in the public is a troubling venue to visit. Not Face Book and Twitter! Both serve as brilliant stages to canvas a willingness to express. But nobody can see the wandering eyes of the mystic. Those words. The very blocks of lettering that seemed so right when slipping from a set of one of kind prints connected to your fidgety fingers. What is written usually next to never falls properly into the ears of a passerby What is the envisioned? When readers hit refresh. The picture changes. Unless they're holding a book. As a writer. I challenge my worst side to go public. The shy, hidden away personality that turns jotting words down like a shot of sugar shoved into the veins of everyday. Big business calls it stepping out of the box. I call it comedy. I laugh before I go on stage. I laugh after reading several pages from the books chapters. I treat what I do like a joke. You can't take the people in the audience serious! Especially since 98% of them are still trying to digest the opening sentences. I spend a lot of time on college campuses teaching Radio Broadcasters, "You have seven seconds to land the attention of your listener. After that... its 100% natural ability." The featured photograph is that writer that lives in me. Fourteen chapters deep into his book Scrambled Eggs and he felt the rest of me should join him outside. The box. In public. On display. Not one person responded when he left the stage. Not a moment was spent explaining the layout. Nor a passing breeze felt by the cold air delivered by the listening audience. The writer doesn't care. I set it free into the universe that supports my art. Now it's up to the universe to find the required soil to let there be life after the Poet.
Posted by Arroe at 1:12 PM
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Have we gotten lazy with our writing or has Twitter and Face Book given nonchalant writer's permission to raise their voice? First and foremost... I love how this nation has turned into a Social Media driven communication machine. Even if you text: Burp. It's still writing. One burp and instantly I'm reminded of all the other burps I've heard. My brother's and I would lace our guts with hot Pepsi then recite the lyrics of Walk This Way from Aerosmith. It took ten years for my wife to set free a burp publically. Good girls from Chicago don't do that! Who was she trying to fool? I knew she was setting free a blast of stomach gas because she tried to let it slip through her nose! See what texting: Burp does! What's it going to take to convince you to complete a sentence. Crap! Why did I have to take it there? No day passes in radio that I'm not bombarded with 15,000 run on sentences that switch nouns so fast that its completely impossible to grab air before touching the final word. Listen to the Jocks spinning your favorite tunes! Check out the newscaster's attempting to spill their guts on the latest big wow action. Preachers! Bankers! Police officers vowing to clock you in at 53 in a 35. All speak too many words! The DVR hooked up to that flat screen is the most beautiful piece of art on earth. I don't have to watch the commercials. I would! If there was "less" to digest! This Blog is already too long. I should have said, "Thanks for texting. Writing is righting." But hell no! I had to get hooked up on a burp. It's when you burp and fart at the same time that freaks your friends out. They don't know if they should run or cheer on the music maker. Clearly I can see them counting to ten in their head. Any scent sent after eleven automatically gets blamed on the dog. My good friend writes the other day. Her reaction to reading the second draft of my new book Scrambled Eggs. "Where does this stuff come from? I can't adlib. I can't fill out an employment application without embarking on a journey of 1,000 mistakes." Here's my secret. Burp. Everybody does it. Some try to hide it. Other's play with it like melted chocolate ice sitting in bowl. The moment you take that last bite... you're gonna have to wait until tomorrow to get more. Sure you can stand up. Rush to the kitchen and spoon in another twisted mix of sugar. But you won't appreciate it. The burp is no different. Let one hang and within seconds your memory stick is flooded with mental downloads of comparisons. If guys could fart the alphabet it would be the hottest joke in comedy clubs. Write! Paint a room. Tell your readers exactly what it looks like when a burp feels like its vibrating your throat and it ends up shooting out your nose. And it's wet. Ohhhhhhhhhhh! What? I'm a writer! What did you expect? A radio commercial with 39 seconds of copy stuffed into a 15?
Posted by Arroe at 1:21 PM
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
A friend. Multiple years. The type you meet in your twenties. Face and experience martital divorce with during the rugged 30's. Helps you mentally and physically after taking a middle aged man near fatal hit. That type of friend. Sends me an email, "Please stop putting your writing on Linkedin. It's designed for business only." Pausing for a moment. Maybe two. But more like ten. I begin to think, "Writing is my business. I write books. I Blog for radio station websites. I write radio and television commercials. Wedding vows! Four hour Broadcasting lectures and fourth thousand business emails every day. I write!" The sign above the door should read: Don't let friends email you. Julia Cameron spent a lot of money printing out her reasons why Artists tend to go silent. Teachers with giant red pens. When it comes to marking up your words. They have a Backstage Pass. You have to believe what they say! They're the teacher! Friends with emails, Face Book, Twitter and texting are just as dangerous. My new book Scrambled Eggs is fourteen chapters deep into its second draft. Fricken having the time of my life spitting words out of my fingertips. I'm riding the greatest high since my last book Conversation With The Devil pulled from my port during the summer of 2009. I broke the biggest Julia Cameron rule: Don't let friends read your writing. A different friend. The friend that edited my book The Blizzard White Canvas: Halloween 78. She totally gets me! Grasping my oddness. Professional editors and writers have this invisible relationship. A bond. Not a protection device but a clear path as to where the mind body and soul drift off to when a writing instrument falls into my hand. Her exact comment was, "Are you having fun writing this one? If so... that's all that counts." This is what my heart heard, "What a piece of ****. Seven published books into your life and this is the best you can come up with? I thought you said this was the set of pages that would take your writing up to the top of the mountain. Dude. I had to buy a shovel and bury it." It took me nearly a week to get over her initial true comment. I shut the world out! I wanted nothing to do with anybody. I mean how could a book idea that's taken over my life far greater than any other be labeled the perfect liner for a trash can? I didn't write at my normal time this morning. Scrambled Eggs went untouched. My brown eyes rolling slowly across the room from left to right. Then up and down. The typical child that knows a little too much. Most of it being the reason why nothing was tapped onto the computer screen. I gave Chapter Fourteen to the editor friend to read. She said, "I just can't get into this one. I'm sure it's a great story. The most important thing is...you're having fun right?" This is what my heart heard, "Why are you wasting my time? Don't you get it? Blogging every day on radio station websites has destroyed your ability to share a story. You idiot! Readers want more than quick sentences and sharp to the point picture painting. You don't have what it takes to keep modern books alive. Just stop! Please before you hurt yourself!" I thought being a Jock on the Radio was a tough performance. Come to think of it. If Jocks could see their listeners; 98% of those making noise on car speakers couldn't handle it when someone in the backseat screams, "Change the station!" The waitress delivering hot food to a restaurant table? What makes them so tough in the art of downplaying customer rejection? A politician that finds out their best friend of multiple years didn't put in a vote for them this past November. The doctor that can't fix their child's broken smile. I write. I'm not sure why. I won't say it's because writing makes me breathe better. Especially when I enjoy writing scenes that steal my breath. I don't write to brag. Then I would just stop. But I can't. It's creative diarrhea. You've gotta get the stuff out or the damn headaches set in. It's not my goal to become famous through writing. It's just my need to one day meet the writer that was silent before deciding, "I can do this. He makes it seem like so much fun." Now my job is done.
Posted by Arroe at 12:51 PM