What is the value of words?

It’s been said that “A picture is worth a thousand words.” And I have no doubt that this is true. Often my mind wanders off into the elements of a single image.  A complete back story becomes apparent and I find myself speculating on what that moment developed into.

Like just recently, I saw an image of a warm (think crackle in the fireplace welcoming) yet dimly lit room with books scattered all about the floor and tables. A single open book rest upon the sofa. Immediately I tensely wonder. What happened in that room? Why the books were so meaningful to the occurrence, since nothing else is disturbed? Where is the reader?! And what on the page of that particular open book determined what ensued?

For the next half hour I thought only of the intricate details that circled back to that exact moment. For nothing though. Not one word of my ideas was written down. It serves more as an impulsive artistic workout. Of course, many deem it as wasteful reverie. Why not employ it as one of my stories? The reason is simply because, as intricate as it may be, it is not profound enough to be written.

A thousand or even ten-thousand words do not necessarily create a picture. Many modern day writers, editors, and publishers would seemingly believe it so. They cast an endless barrage of what is socially “good”, promoting literature that is arguably more pencil drawing rather than true representation.  I personally know of at least two pre-teens that read Shakespeare. Perhaps somewhat extreme for their ages, but what is the cultural contrast here?  

I am simply stating that I am an intellectual advocate. Most definitively writing should be imaginative! No one wants to read a lifeless story. But also expand upon the analytical value within the story. What in the image is not apparent to you? Give the mind its own alternate avenues to pursue before climatically ending with your own. Stimulate the reader to relate to a character and allow them a few pages to examine what they themselves with do if living the story.

It is not the word count. It is most assuredly the quality of the words that paints the picture. So write what you feel.

A Restless Box

 It’s not something that is readily recognized, but most of us are avid fans of stories. Who among us has lived a day where we do not, at some moment, go silent to hear a narrative? The telling begins from the moment we rise, then streams long into our rest. Whether it’s by word, text, or email, there is always details that demand our attention. After all, we live in a technological world where everyone is an assertive author. And that is not entirely a bad thing. As our minds open to imagine, to understand, to relate, we somehow see a worthier world than the one we knew.

For some time now, as I have wandered from the ever learning man that I use to be, I believed that. In every day I still listen. But it is faded. For it’s the quick articles or the brief immaterial news casts that are given to bear some resemblance of importance. There is little profound thinking in passing of the day. We become the ants that steadily work to live without the wanting to know why, we the kings of nothing.  And as I lie to slumber each night, I would fade with a hopeless thought of thinking beyond that day or the restless days to come.  

Then one morning a local library is relieved of its insignificant material. What a tragedy to hear, I thought. So I left a list of writers and topics that I held still significant. That night, the wars, the history, the words of novelists, poets, and playwrights were left in boxes at my door. Their works seemed forgotten, their library cards not stamped in years. But as I turned their yellowed pages, the deep dreams of great writers were awaken within me. The Best Short Stories of the Modern Age became my companion for some weeks. I would pull it from my pack to give me sustenance throughout the days. A story by Poe, then Hemingway, then Conrad, Anderson, Faulkner, …each a symbolic reflection of what it is to be human, and why.

This is a moment where I breathe. For seemingly, I found something I did not realize I so desperately needed. We live in age where we think we feel, where we think we know. We think this is life because it is the only living we know, to expect without exertion. It is tiresome to read, and far more demanding to understand. But if you could envision that moment through the author’s eyes, you would find such beauty, and be a far more content within its glow.  For no one can describe it so eloquently as a person that has pondered upon it so endlessly.

Photo by Aziz Acharki on Unsplash




I have said before, it is the inescapable reality that cannot be altered within our minds. The world may very well be a mixing pot, with so many eagerly leaping into the boiling waters to conceivably be part of something greater. But in the mist of marketing, it is simply the abating of a once whole element. Any unique quality or creativity is vaporized away in the process of appealing to all.

Thrown in the lot are spices to appeal, a bouquet of fragrances prompting us to those things that we embrace, or wish that we still did. Just a taste though. It has to attract everyone after all.  Yet the fusion of several artists does not make art. The individual distinctions are gone; the canvas becomes no more than a fabrication.

I tend to dream at the stone’s edge, of how it once was, days past. Not so much the conjuring of reminiscent regrets like we all seem to summon. Rather those distinctive moments within our past that were defining, those moments when we were still resolute and undissolved. Like the way a young boy looks to his best friend just before he jumps. There is a magnitude of relatable reality locked within that moment. It may bring you contentment, fear, sadness, or inspiration; it may make you laugh or cry. But it will assuredly make you feel. And that is art.

Every day I long to sense art, and ever once and a while I do, in the smallest of actions. I recognize it because it immediately moves me; for I am moved by so little these days. Yet somehow those little actions have captured the essence of what it is to live. Not necessarily what we’d wish it to be, but what it openly is. Like smelling the roses along the way, though they are wilted. It’s what one does at that instant that makes art. For you are no longer in control of your thoughts. They are drifting far to a distant moment when the senses were sterling…



Imagine the Unimaginable




I would like to say that I’ve passed through my agony and I can move on. But I don’t think that I will ever get over my daughter’s absence now; nor do I think I would ever want to. As writers, we are afflicted and empowered by weighty moments within life.  They give realism even into fiction, a feeling that readers can relate to. But one must be encouraged to use those experiences expressively, and with whom better than other authors.


M. Daly

There is a new site, with quite the talented host, that zealously challenges my pensiveness. Imagine the Possibilities is a literary gathering point crafted to promote aspiring authors.  Created by the inventive artist, Margaret Daly, published poet and freelance writer, the site’s drive is to inspire and promote one another’s works. After all, it is difficult to impartiality advocate your own work. And just because it may not be what’s “prominent” right now, doesn’t mean it isn’t good. Let’s face it, most literary classics were far from mainstream.

I remember taking an online writing course with some 20 others across the country.  Each week would post a sample of a story based upon a particular idea. The postings could be commented on by everyone in the course. The sheer variety and creativity of those stories was amazing. So much in fact, that it created new stories within my own mind. Plus the comments helped to alter the story ideas to perfection.

So I think that Margaret has a very prolific idea with her site. As I continue to write The Story of Us, I hope to absorb ideas from these other featured writers. Certainly ever author is an individual with original ideas. But the purpose of writing is to convey those ideas into a recognizable and relatable story for others to enjoy. I’m not necessarily one to share my own thoughts, yet sometimes doing so generates an unimaginable masterpiece. So, just Imagine the Possibilities


In the Words of a Poet…

I enjoy writing.  I am at peace as I sit in the quiet, writing words down as they flow through me like breath itself. Sometimes, that pen and paper are all that keep me from suffocating; it’s an expression. I believe it was the same for my daughter. Yet for all my discernment, I overlooked the beauty of my greatest creation. How odd that I never once noticed her writing…? Though I assure you, she wrote abundantly.0000 001

This winter has been so long in contemplation, not only of my own thoughts and feeling, but also of my daughter’s too. Tara left behind numerous journals, containing her innermost fears and feelings. I had the infinite pleasure and sorrow of reading through them. I was so moved by the profound pain and vision within her words that, in the remodeling of my book of poetry, I have chosen to include several pieces of her work.tumblr_m7l0mv17kY1r4zgh9o1_500_large

Her intrepidness has inspired many pieces of poetry from me, and I have attempted to capture her beauty within    Autumn Leaves: Colors of the Fall. Furthermore, she has now officially co-authored a work of literature with me. She  duly desires much of the credit. As with most of everything I done in life, Tara has given it meaning.

So if you would like to experience some new heart felt material by me, and a few of the distant thoughts of Tara, then please read our book of poetry. I guarantee that everyone will discover something that changes them in at least some small way. It can be obtained in either black and white or full color. But both shall make you feel.colorful-autumn-leaves-wallpaper-autumn-leaves-wallpaper

Autumn Leaves in winter

2014-12-07_2006There are mornings we stir, but do not stem. Though the darkness has faded and the engines of life pulse rhythmically in their waiting, we lie still; for the hour seems all too raw, and the light has yet to break upon the pane.

We lie in remembrance of when our hearts would thrive, when we would quickly dress and race to seize the day. Now we simply search for dreams, to enliven, to once more ascend that tree where as a child we rose above our earthly view. Oh’ the things we saw! How the brilliant sun shimmered within our eyes, how our bruises abated quickly. But we were young, you and I.

We become like a mind that has forgotten its path, like a great design that has been closed away inside a drawer, because we had no place for it left within our hearts. We are lost and falling, neither broken nor whole, suspended in our thoughts. We are leaves in the air, swept by wayward winds, treasuring our last embrace. We are afraid to rest. So we remain there in our bed of morning, listening, whispering, I still love you so.~

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Yes. There has been lull in my words as I find my foothold once more. Honestly, it has been quite difficult to stand after my recent setback. However, I am determined to change that in the coming months. My educational studies are ending, the holiday season is here, and I still have many thoughts to share.

Life has taught me new lessons. It’s time to change many aspects of my life to harmonize with those new views.  So I’ve decided first to remodel my book of poetry, essentially reshaping it to praise the many colors of my daughter’s life. It will be entirely updated to reflect the beauty that was her. Along with a revised cover, which I have posted, there will be extensive additions to its content. I think that readers will embrace it considerably as I imbue it with the emotions of Tara’s vitality. It will also serve as a medium for me to remain close to her. I will endeavor to make it as brilliant as she was herself.

I realize that many people have asked when they can read it. Well, my plan is to have it available in both digital and book form by February. I have several other activities that need to be finalized in the meantime. But rest assured, I will do my best to deliver it to you by then.

The Story of Us should then be available by mid-summer.  Thank you so much for the support and Merry Christmas..!

Passion of Creation

Into every piece, an artist pours a part of himself. In fact, it is probably what makes the piece Art, those evident elements of emotion. As a writer, I don’t think the idea of a piece exists until prompted by passion. It’s the passion that generates the necessity for the work, the intricate details of its intendment, and the will to bring it to life. For me, that passion has never come without sacrifice.

On the eve on October 25, I received the unbearable news that my only child had died, thus beginning the darkest days of living; because Tara was color. She gave meaning to life. She was the force that drove us forward, that made us want to be ever better.  There was liveliness to her eyes, a wit to her words.  And when we looked upon her smile, it had a way of brightening everything around her. Her presence dissolved the dark. 10313198_306556712869668_8281890496784424958_n

Yet for all her beauty, she gleamed far too brightly, her brilliance often burning upon itself. In her zest for living, she often took the harder road. She was a beacon that feverishly guided my words and impelled me.  Then without warning, it vanished.

I now look upon The Story of Us. (That is the name I thought most appropriate.) When I began it some time ago, I had inscribed it with the dedication: To my daughter Tara…for all that you are too me. I always thought she would read it one day and truly realize she was all that ever mattered to me. But the mundane factors of life quelled the greater cause. I did not express it in time.

There only remains the passion of her memory, heightening and hindering. She fuels me now to quicken the words, though I have little compassion for the comfort of words. I want only to bring her colors to life, to express in words the potency of her being, to immortalize her at least within my own art. For once I have, the world will know her brilliance too.

In Light of Words

The potential for our lives still exists, even when our will has died. 3003586-slide-942-doing-more-less-6-rituals-reach-peak-performance

With half my mind submerged in creative symbolism and the other half in an analytic battle deciphering  the accurate meaning of Shakespearean works, I am sometimes left without hope.  It seems that all the prominent writers have past; their great woks now selling for pennies. And even if they were here, would their meaning still be heard?

The words of the last generation were bound to newer ideals. They sought to explore the nature of men, not to diminish their essence to the angst of teens. Don’t get me wrong. Adolescence is a significant part of life, where we discover the potential within us.  Like Olympic runners striving to pass the baton on to the next in line, we were the next to run, to achieve more than where we once stood. However, now it’s a question of whether the torch still burns.


I get it! Life is short. Life is harsh. Life is a fast paced social pretense that holds little time for great efforts. But then I think  of young Laura Dekker circumnavigated the world alone. Or that Emily Bear was a world renowned composer by age seven. Great stories are based upon the actions of real people. And that’s the portrait we should create, to be creatively inspired by others, to write of incredible deeds by implausible people. It’s the stories of those people, and their unfathomable convictions, that lead to Oscars and Noble Peace Prizes.

Recently I saw a performance (I appreciate art in all forms) of singer Sia’s Chandelier. It turns out that the performance has aired on everything from Ellen to the VMA Awards. And I was completely enthralled.  Whether intended or not, the marketing of the talented young dancer Maddie Zeigler is artful and inspirational. I foresee a tremendous future for them both. But what does this have to do with literature?



The entire performance is a story itself. The intrigue of talented Maddie Zeigler and the life she brings to the song, the eccentricity of Sia suppressing from the focus, the implications of the song itself, all create an amazing story. There it is, so simple and meaningful. Why can’t we aspire to write something so prolific? Have we lost the will to capture the gravity that lies within the models of life?

Art is the moving of the reader through the vision of the writer. If the art has moved you, it will evitable move others as well.

You Never Know Just How Little You Know

mind explosion


After a long absence, I have finally returned to my author’s website. I realize that there is no good excuse other than stating that even the life of an avid writer becomes cluttered with fundamentals of everyday living.  There is work (after all, writing is a passion more than a paycheck), my final term of schooling, and the general tasks of daily development. But I’d like to think that I have continued to be productive, building upon my exposure for the sake of creativity.

For one thing, I have been reading quite a few more books than usual. Whether it is by my own volition or not is irrelevant, the important thing is that I am engaging in the stories of others. And the more I read, the insightful I become as a writer. Going back with a more open mind and reading Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea was nothing less than illuminating. Many modern day reviews have stated it as simply dragging on. (No doubt in comparison to some YA series.) But the very pages of his novel are saturated with symbolism. If you can read any page one-dimensionally, then you do truly not understand the words.

old man


The same could be said about many stories. I guess that’s what I am trying to emphasize. A writer has to be flexible to every meaning of the word. We have to be open to learning new ideas and concepts, even though we may feel ours is flawless; because it is flawed. I find myself talking less these days. (Just as much anti-social as ever.) I listen and observe, especially to those that are willing to offer. I am constantly being taught new ways of discerning, and better ways of expressing.


In harmony with innovation, my website is altering its expression. So please bear with me as I try to make it accessible and interesting to all. And if you’re interested, you can follow my views on my Mobile Guide to War blog. Hope you find me site enjoyable and welcome back to my world!