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Location: Dublin, Republic of, Ireland

Tuesday, 3 October 2006


Crimson Flaw

on my entry yesterday, Now Remember

"the ending is ...shall we use the word you prefer? ...it is so clever.. once i remarked that you are a master of encounters. If you look away deep into the emptiness where the moments are you will realize how masterfully you observe the etiquette of memory.. I love the composition ..the arrangement.. the soft severance from the eye...and how beautiful is the previous poem..

i am blundering into the obscure... i thank you again for reading what i have written.."

I think Crimson, this wonderful new poet, I have just begun to read in Vienna really hit the nail on the head when he described my work yesterday. I was awed that he had read my own thoughts. Not one for notebook jottings, I must write this down now, before I myself lose my enthusiasm.

Not the compliments of course, but rather the hurrah-hurrah ideas to my stories that when I think of comic episodes, I now see in my head, little musicals, choirs and choruses. I start humming and singing my own words.

I do feel that my writing has started to evolve in a new way that is beyond even my own comprehension. Mostly, my boldness, my brashness...I don't know where that first began to take off.

I used my blog as a very limited resource to try and write again when I really couldn't write anything creatively for 5-6 dark years. This after being a hardy, professional journalist. This blog was a perfect avenue. There was another before this. This just rises to a new level of approach, versatility and condensation of my work.

In these last few months, I began to experiment heavily with different forms for my prose. I am a versatile writer and with multiple layers to a craft, that confuses even me. What did I want to send to a publisher? What genre did I want to first define my reputation in?
That is a question that constantly consumes and haunts me.

While I have cherished and relished every praise, I do not have the luxury of them sitting on my lap. Soon, they slip away once more into the distant mountains. I am left alone with my craft, brooding and mulling over things. But I remember most of the words in the comment boxes that have upheld my spirit whenever I felt down.

I think that if I died today, with all my jottings, snippets, vignettes, chapters, scribblings, poetry and excerpts of this or that, would I be happy.? I think the answer would be yes. When all else has failed, my writing has been there. I think it is time to head spiritually - in a way metaphorically speaking - to where this craft was always designed to take me. But the genre, form and techniques, that I and I alone wish to employ, I still don't know.

As for the lifeline of this blog, I'm sure I will go when the time is right. At the moment for a while longer, it is still a crutch. I do see it evolving into an everyday journal once I get to England. And after that as my life continues to change, anything can happen.

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