Intro: All my life people have told me,
"You're a good writer". I would smile (whether internally or otherwise) and awkwardly
acknowledge the praise. It was something I did well, or well enough to fool people into thinking I was
"good". It was something that would come naturally, and rather easy.
Those who know me well often hear me speak of the "channeling process", especially during the writing of certain poems or short
stories. These are the "magical" times when pen, pencil or keyboard take control and I am just a
vessel, a tool of some unknown force that guides me where it wants to go. I often start off in one direction and by the time the piece is done, I read it
(several times just to make sure) and ask myself, "How did I get here?" "Who wrote that?" I would often search for elements of "me" and realize that somewhere along the line, I was not the author. I just let the idea, poem or story come through me; be born through me.
The non-earthly curious side of me likes to think that maybe, just maybe, it's a collective supernatural effort on behalf of writers who were here before
me, and maybe those still yet unborn. A large field of literary potential that I inadvertedly tap into. Quite possibly, I may have inherited my father's
urge and ability to skillfully control his native tongue (not Engish). I selfishly fantasize sometimes that I
have this unique and personal portal available to me (and only me) that keeps me grounded and away from the gift-wrapped vices that offer
themselves to me; making themselves available in an attempt to get me into trouble and complicate my existence (especially during tough times). I
could be dead wrong on all counts. It may come to down to: I romanticize too much. Could very well be the case. But
what I can say for certain is that I wholeheartedly believe in this wonderful force called artistic energy.
Certainly, an energy to be respected.
Ironically, after drafting a multitude of poems (and having some published), starting a poetry board, collaborating with others (both personally and for
business purposes), and quite a few people claiming it, I have finally accepted myself as a writer. There, I
said it. As you will notice: no multi-colored balloons dropping, no fireworks illuminating any evening skies, and
no graffiti being hand thrown from tall buildings who scratch the underbelly of moving clouds. This event will slip
uneventfully, into the river's bank; blending unheard and unnoticed into murky waters. It is I that will be forever
shook. Shedding the stereotypical views and limited images of what I thought writers, and writing, should be, I seek to
become a better architect of alphabetized expression. The majority of my public work has typically focused on life as I
saw it affect others. I would take a situation, place myself in it, and create from that
perspective. A distant photographer capturing a still black-and-white moment.
Well, I wish to experiment with vulnerability, honesty and self-portraits. I wish to turn
the camera on myself. Why? Because it's frightening, insanely scary and
goes against my nature as a moderately shy and private individual. If I am to accept my role as a "writer", I
feel I must go outside my comfort zone and navigate through a wickedly sun-less forest I have never walked through before.
Sound noble? Well, not so fast. I also have reasons that encompass self-interest, and in a more desperate way,
self-preservation. Heartbreak brings me to this point. And I wouldn't blame
the writing gods if they were angry at me because only hurt seems to move me towards this craft. When times are good,
quite frankly, I read. It is the wretches of pain that brings me back to this altar.
The solace I seek, I find right here. Russian Vodka doesn't work (no matter what the brand, particulary
"Red Bloc"), other women simply can't fill the void right now, money is wonderful to hold/feel/spend yet it does not mend, and
friends/family mean well, but ... I shall leave it there. "But" suffices to explain.
Amor is an addiction. Today I start my recovery. Under this umbrella, I find: my self-revelation regarding what/who I am as an artist, my unsteady walk into this foreign terrain of public sharing, my intimate thoughts of a woman who I have adored for a while, and my need to find relief from this perpetual sting that stems from expired sentiment.
In the name of love, some erect stone-crafted monuments for the world to see. All I have
are words.
-Shadowkool-
