Today. I broke a rule. I promised myself to stay focused. To not stray away from. To become weak. To sell out to being what I've always been. A perfectionist. The writing of my new book. People think words fall from the sky. If that's the case. May I buy a case of buckets? Stay focused. My battle cry. Keep from having to revert back to new beginnings. It will be there when you are finished. But did I listen? I chose instead. To recognize. The guy I am. The writer inside. Wasn't within the same rhythm and tone. Shared those days. When words were spirits having flown. Gone! Gone! Gone! First the simple words. Gone! A sentence. I reconstructed a paragraph and got high. High off the challenge of getting to redesign. It took me thirty five years to publish the book that kept me in school. I kept changing ideas. Layouts were boring. I stumbled and fumbled. I no longer could see eye to page. So I elected to change. And change. And change. It's not good that I went back and reshaped the landscape of the first in chapters. Melodic might be my rhyme. But the timing is way off. I have until February 2014 to break this book free. Editing isn't free. The expense is common sense. I love what I rewrote! But how will I feel in sixty to one hundred days. I broke a rule. I didn't stay focused. I chose instead to bring a knife to the computer screen. Cutting loose what could've been a readers most favorite part. What do I know? Except the moment. It fell from the sky.
I would love to see what the book authors, poets and music makers in Syria are setting free. Writer's fear nothing. Be it a jotting down. A mental expression or conversation. Storyteller's express because they weren't born to keep it in. How many writer's in Syria have been ordered into silence? Trying times multiply the minds ambition to put print to work in the world's eye. Writer's get creative. Making paths visible by developing the guts to cut through everyday language to make up another. Like Irish Limericks. Where are the writing instruments and pads of paper in Syria? You can't text there! It's being read by rule makers turning book authors, poets and music makers into rule breakers. Do the windows of the soul equal the stories being told? Who then is documenting the paragraphs so that other generations can learn from it without passing the fear for living forward? Writer's cannot go without speaking. Hidden. The path. So it be challenged. But human skin cannot hold in. Experience and survival. It has to be flowing freely somewhere. Is it being written then quickly ripped into shreds of nothingness? Put in the frames of homes then covered by photographs of a past that will never return again. Is it wrong to think? A writer's greatest gift is to guarantee a link. Between he. They and all who'll one day gather. To hear of the tale. The struggles versus victory. Starvation dulled by an inner core of motivation that moves the innocent toward beams of security. Writer's don't release to feel championed. Books may sell but it's a story we do tell. A masterpiece like that of a painting hung above a fireplace mantle. A passing thought from yesterday. Led into an area of nonexistent. Without book authors, poets and music makers. The sights we see would only be dreams.