It’s my grandmother’s fault that I discovered the art of word.
When I was seventeen, she turned me on to her old, heavy duty, typewriter. It was a large blue one, that shook the small table we set it on every time I hit the return button. I spent hours writing and even submitted a few early works which were accepted to my surprise. I have never been one to stick to a specific style, as we all know, writing is a perspective. It changes from day to day, sometimes it is light and sometimes it is dark. I do suffer from bouts of depression, so a lot of my work does swim about the darker depths of my being, and that in turn does reflect how I view the world and its going Ons.
There was a time when all arts molded the world, by either reflecting the world or altering its perspective. Now with the initiation of AI, we are rapidly losing the world and perspective. Anyone can create in writing, art, or music via AI that will literally take a speck of an idea and turn it into a masterful composition. This disturbs me, and maybe you too, because I feel deeply about what I see in people I meet, and the heaviness of the world. This is where I find my relations with both and this is what spurns me to express these emotions and thoughts. We are not a prompt or something to generate. We are human beings changing and altering in real time as we grow and learn and experience a real life. Personally, I’d like to keep it this way.
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Here are some working titles for a new book:
THE BONES OF MY FEET
GRAVES & OTHER PARAPHERNILIA