I am writing regarding your recent publications, or lack thereof, and your mismanagement of missives pertaining to such. You are remiss, Sir, in your submissions and—dare I say?—phlegmatically under-emotive in your overly-omittive emissions.
If you were a math problem, you would require division by zero, Sir. If you were a painting, you would be a Van Gone. Forsooth, methinks I shall compare thee to a grand play performed by an invisible mime who may or may not be stuck in a box, but if he was, how would we know? And honestly, any imaginary creature capable of incarcerating itself in an invisible box has earned the solitude. Methinks you, Sir, have become just such a creature! A pox on your invisible box—a pox I say!
I believe I speak for all your one-time readers when I say, “shave that hideous hobo beard and finish a book!”Yours In Aggressive Waiting and Judgment,
Yes, I am in fact writing hate mail to myself. I haven't finished my next book. I haven't blogged for...wow, like five years? That can't be right.
My last surgery was a year ago (neck fusion and disc replacement). I've been feeling pretty good since then. I've been writing, but I'm a bit stuck. For now, until I actually manage to finish a book, here are some snippets from my freeform writing (i.e., things I write to challenge myself and/or reengage my mind).
With the first one ("Ode to an Office Printer") I felt like my writing had gone flat, so I picked one of the most boring things I could think of (an office printer) and tried to make it interesting.
The second one ("Night Falls Dark") is a poem I wrote after a surgery. Be warned, it's a bit grim.
Ode to an Office Printer
I saw a creature dark and true,
buried in a midnight bog.
There was nothing I could do.
It climbed afoot to rend anew,
the life that I forgot.
round the purpled bend.
I could not fight, though I thought,
to flee the creature
it rises to a stop,
the piper and the lamb;
screams dying to descend
never rise again.
falling through the jasmine sky,
drawing near me where I lie.
climbing from within,
a withered husk,
a corpse undone,
a monster, not a man.
Long roads lead to empty ends.
No matter how far I walk, knife in hand
—the ticking clock—
night falls dark in every man.