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How Writing Found and Changed Me. An excerpt from my "Poetic Justice book"

How Writing Found and Changed Him, and Me. He was hardly even able to string six words together to order his lunch but…

A high school dropout he was, ran away from home at sixteen. After two wasted attempts at getting back on the higher learning train. Decided to get a haircut and get a job, no matter the degree of “real.” Just get a job to pay the bills. None of the jobs he got did quite measure up to the mastery of the bills. He decided to get a marketable skill. It came in the form of apprenticeship training at custom-tailoring. Just as in the story of the wasp and the bumblebee. As soon as he was able to make the honeycomb, and phoning me. That was enough he thought so he quit the learning process, too fast, yes. Got himself a sewing machine and a house dress, at last. Started out passing himself off as a tailor. Unsuspecting many were to be hooked and dragged into the failure. Did that for well over twenty-five years. Well, you know, one tends to get better with time and enough opportunity to steer and practice. Even in such things as that, and this. So, he wasn’t too far off the mark after all. Migration was to eventually find him and become a viable option to call.

Started travelling, straddling the islands in search of work, yes, that one he hopped upon was a jerk… chicken? Of course. Did manage to find some. But there was still an inner burning desire for more. Somehow life holds more than this for him and me. In the stores. Those island-hopping roads lead further to North America. Speaking of roads, that’s where he ended up earning that somewhat “livable” income. He became a bus driver which sees him spending long hours on the roads and then some. Other side effects and things were to come with this too. Like, the chances of seeing how people tend to behave in certain situations and with you. Like, while operating a powerful piece of machinery such as an automobile. He got to see quite a bit of that in the deal, and yes, did some power-tripping of his own there too, on those lots of high heels wearing shoes.

Among the benefits was that of having quite a bit of break time between each trip to rest and wait for the next trip-time to float around. Being a person who was into reading before, he would use some of these break times to do just that and more, like, read. But then. One was to see the opportunity there to write too, he did. Started writing down those stories as he saw them, weekly. Or some of the more outlandish types of behavior that he was to have witnessed on the road from time to time between friends.

 From the savior? 

Said speed. Over time he’d amassed a stack-pile of such tales documented. Not in any formal way. Not with any plans or intent to do anything whatsoever with any of it to go and tell-say. I guess the gods were at work behind the scenes. Or maybe a soul had died long ago with unfinished business which included writing and making a mocking fooling something out of itself, and him. That soul seemed to have somehow bumped into him and got a rebirth. Whatever the case, he started writing, inadvertently. But then, here comes the wonders of the “online, internet age.” And pushers pushing ideas, through the wavy cage. Sellers selling all sorts of nothings in Arcadia on the rage. They sold him on the idea that: if he had ever written anything, or even thought of doing anything such the likes. They can make it all happen for him, like magic on the ice. He bit the bait and ran. By the time he realized what had happened, he’d spent way too much money buying into the idea that he was a natural born writer. Big things were waiting to happen just beyond the next payment from him to them and wider, from you and me too, as they hid and bite her. But of course, it never came.

He was angry, disappointed. Couldn’t stand to even so much as to look at the stack-pile of papers that he ended up holding on to. Beyond me. But two to three years later. He couldn’t suppress the swarms of biting bugs any longer. Furthermore, he still has those long breaks to contend with between bus trips. So, he picked up the pen again, like this. Well, it was really the phone. He quickly learned how to make use of notepad apps on his phone. Several stories have passed through his gadgets since then to find a way home. Yes, the more he writes, the more his craft improves overnights, I think. At times he was at a loss to think those things had come out of him. Which was to further convince him that it, that ghost which had possessed him when he wasn’t looking, was really at it and working. So far, he has Amazon-published titles such as:

· Spaces, my space, your space, and the public space. Which, by the way, is a revamped version of that first book of the same name. Along with:

· 76, Clancy’s journey

· Some Shitty Vacation

· Waters of Silver Spring.

· Black Blood

· How to train a wild puppy dog named Manley

· The sword, the word, and books of rules

· The Shi t Depot, and

· Backsliding, amongst others.

All are available on Amazon, where another story was to take shape on his journey and was born. The moral here is this. If you were born for this, or it for you. You can do it, however, nothing is going to happen for you. Not unless you hop on the horse and ride. If and when you get thrown, pick yourself up, get back on the mount, and ride like the devil is at your heels. Because, she probably is.    

~⸪⁓