Pictures Of A New Book: Part Thirty Three

Writing daily was once my secret thing. To be free to release was like breathing underwater. Once free from writing I’d quickly run to hide what had spilled from my fingertips. Only to realize. Nobody knew what I was speaking of. I’ve often been labeled quirky. They think I’m weird so I set out to prove it. Writing is music so I made it. Writing is my daily blank canvas so I painted then quickly sold the works to raise money for nonprofit organizations. Writing helps radio and television commercials move people you’ll never meet. Writing generates huge pictures in my mind that I can never find enough words to explain. Writing connects me to the four hundred thousand voices that keep me awake at two in the morning. How could I keep this from anyone? So I stopped hiding it. Only to learn people still think I’m a freak. More so now that I’m open. My new book Scrambled Eggs. The vow is to write it in my language. To give away the accent that lives in the core of a soul that enjoys staring at me in the bathroom mirror. Chuckle, cry, hold onto, massage and have compassion for and against…I’ve never felt so much emotion while writing this. Tiny bits of paragraphs have been given to friends. Silently they sit far from a chapter of let’s pretend. Holy Mother of God they have no problem expressing, “You’re a freak! You write in ways that make me think and I don’t have time for that.” Only one has heard me share the sentences in length. One has taken the time to listen to how I separate thought from destination. One bravely sits in a room to hear the artist open his writing point of view. I shut them off this week. It’s not fair to the other readers forced to think without hearing my voice speak. I know the punctuation. I know where to breathe. I know the value of what I don’t pretend to release. Readers are stuck trying to figure out the accent of my language. To which I vowed, “I must remain for the first time true to who I am while writing.” The anger and pain grew instantly from the one that chose to listen. How dare I keep from them the story! So hurt I was that they were hurt. Then another friend said to me, “Have them read it to you. So you can hear your readers think. So the voices that come to them when your words appear have a place to escape. Listen to their take. Study how they handle your word shapes. You could very well scream, “I am such a freak!” But it doesn’t matter. This book. This is the one I vowed to keep in the accent in the way my fingertips speak.