Scrambled Egg Shells; Part Two

Listen to the story on I Heart Radio In Chapter Two John takes a stroll through the busy streets of New York City. There was once a time when dodging the constantly busy minded inspired a reason to dance. The footsteps required to avoid. The swerving of his hips to get into then around. But this day. He bumps into a New Yorker on the phone.

Scrambled Egg Shells: Part One

Peter Max once told me, "You have to release your art! It doesn't belong to you!" Julia Cameron elegantly preaches in The Artist Way the very lyrics of having no reason to be creatively selfish. With each passing day. I inch closer to the first year writing celebration of Scrambled Eggs. While attending the premiere of About Time last evening. The writer within kept smiling. The making of a book is a brilliant feeling. From single sentences to huge paragraphs. The art of studying the watchful eye of a modern reader to blending reasons of wanting to reinvent the wheel. But one thing is missing. You have no clue as to what I'm hearing in my head. Therefore. Like the writer I am. I shall take the essence of expression and stand in front of you. Just like I have a billion times inside book stores. And read. Part one is taken from Chapter One. Listen to it on I Heart Radio

Pictures Of A New Book: Page Forty Seven

Julia Cameron calls it: Painting a room. Take your writing instrument and bring to life every corner. Give off the scent of so much description that no matter where you're reader's are living... they can see, feel, hear and smell the essence of expression. It's that technique that kept my eyes dipped in buckets of paint while walking through New York City. I refused to jump into impatient yellow cabs. I couldn't be hustled through the transit system. For me to grasp the invisible. I had to become part of it.

My latest book Scrambled Eggs sits on the benches of cluttered streets overrun by business minds and wandering dreams. 832 Broadway shook the nib almost off the instrument. Seconds before arriving. Nearly 11pm. I could've been watching the Presidential debate but found myself inside a comic book store instead. Had I known at the time that the universe was handing me a book to write.

I might have paid closer attention to the busy needs of Super Heroes and cartoon characters. Once within the thin pages of strips and cabinets of plastic figures. I realized the importance of mirrors. Finding my way to a corner. To watch late night New Yorker's. The essence of a dance fed the eyes of the storyteller's lyrics.