The Trouble with Words

When pressed, perhaps the words, not the music, are the essence of the story—which is the whole thing, really. The spiritual folk say we are writing our own- and the prospect is titillating. I used the words from an early age to explain the chaos around me. I liked when Charles Bukowski spoke about ‘Playing with the Word’ because in some ways, that is what I aspire to do. In this way it is not dissimilar from playing Jezebel, my 1932 parlour guitar, or riding a horse for that matter.

The stories that developed released me from something. The act itself is cathartic, in many ways it doesn’t matter about the final product. I like the image of Ernest Hemingway standing above his typewriter with a Cuban cigar and a bottle of dark homemade rum. The ever elusive identity of a writer must include warriorship to some degree. And many of them (or us, depending on how you feel about me) have gone the way of the Samurai once their muse began to elude them.

In the great escape of the characters that I create, characters that I can build anywhere, with very little mind you. A typewriter is ideal, but not necessary. It is with these battered tribe that I travel with—to points unknown. My wish is that the stars collude to allow you to join me.