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  • At heart I’m a writer.

    Before the lens there’s a camera, there’s composition, there’s a picture before the picture and an idea in the mind of the eye working the machine.

    Same with the pen or the keyboard.

    Ideas and stories and pictures of scenes not concrete, liquid and amorphous in imagination. They constantly flicker, jump, evolve, dissect and recombine before the pressure grows and spill themselves into a scattering of words. Some struggle weakly, on life support, rarely given succor or support. Others pump out like arterial blood, visceral and alive. There are a few that sit there and mold, growing a crust for years until they crack open to reveal something entirely unexpected.

    I wish I could take a picture of what my mind sees before the words come. To show everyone the embryo.

    Instead I work on building something “full grown” (though nine out of ten never even take the first or second step). I leave it to the reader(s) to take the canvas, the colors, the clay and make the scenes and characters their own. I run the rails, but they work the flesh, feel the pain, inhale the bare joy I offer.

    A person once told me I write of things that happen after “...you think everything’s gone all fucked...”

    True, mostly.

    I just work what I know and write what I see. Sometimes it’s pretty in the way of forest fires, tornados and atomic blasts. Other times it’s simply acid, existing only to dissolve the flesh, the soft things and reveal the hard details below.

    I’ve seen people laugh when they see their bones, and that makes me smile.
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