doctors,

OR,

talk of infection.

hurting,

excessive bleeding,

blurry reflections.

medical terms,

outcome unconfirmed,

averted eyes

making us squirm.

scars inflamed;

she's ashamed

of the wounds,

dark circles

appearing bruised.

i tell myself god's to blame.

she will never be the same.

damage's too severe.

nothing left to do here,

but sit and wait for the surgery;

wait for white coated

so-called profiteers

with hands stained burgundy.

i'm lying to myself.

i call it a case of perjury.

is it possible it's cancer?

"no need to jump to conclusions."

that's not a good enough answer.

"the good news is there's no occlusion."

your explanations are plodding,

you're stalling

with handshakes

and assertive nodding.

screw you,

and your desire

to play god.

I first learned that my character Hope from my novel, Inner Secrets, was gay when she took over the driver’s seat on Day One of writing. When I sat down to write the first scene, her pivotal words took over when she wrote: Dear Journal, It’s me Hope. I’ve got something to confess.

That sentence paved the way for a revealing one thousand word writing day that not only allowed me to get into the mind of Hope Steele, but also to carve out an entirely different novel than I set out to write.

Something really magical occurs when you sit down, put pen to paper, and allow your character to write whatever is on her mind. By the time I finished writing that journal entry, I knew Hope’s fears, insecurities, flaws, and saving graces. Through that experience, the novel flowed. Not once during its creation did I suffer the dreaded blank screen.

Her voice permeated my mind in such a clear and vocal manner. Her witty remarks and inner turmoil stirred in my brain at a constant tempo that urged me to pull off the sides of many roadways and jot them down on a direct mail envelope haphazardly thrown on my front seat, to stick my head out of the shower and fight the sting of soap as I struggled to get a pen and a dry notepad, and to battle against my Rhode Island accent and my iPhone mic to record as I walked my two energetic boxers at four in the morning.

Hope Steele had so much to say and reveal to me that I felt I had known her my whole life by the time I completed writing the first draft. How? By journaling in her character.

...

Stay tuned for the full article later today on The Official Prose. Blog at: blog.theprose.com/blog.

perspective,

child,

he says.

it's all in perspective.

that's why the birds

hold the keys to the world.

you are not god

and you are not satan.

you are something somewhere between,

just like the rest of us-

more than water,

less than the stars.

see these sparks i'm flicking

off my cigarette?

it's exactly what you could be,

but aren't.

fire.

ash.

you're smoke-

halfway between

fading and swelling.

your place is not with

the soil

or the sky,

but with the trees,

standing tall

above your roots,

but still bowing

before the sun.

being is hard,

i know,

my child,

but you are not alone.

you will make many acquaintances

throughout your days,

but you will find

most of your true friends

to be dead.

talk to hemingway.

speak to frost.

learn the trick to living

is breathing

and it is okay to live like a poet.

and god?

i ask.

bullshit,

he spits.

i believe in verse.

not yourself?

one day,

child,

one day

when pride cannot be our downfall.

one day we will quit

worshipping bukowski

like he is our religion

and we will instead choose to

quietly honor ourselves.

but for now,

we wait

with eyes towards the sky

and feet kicking

to see if there's

anything at all.

"Hi. What's your name?"

"Um..."

"Okay, Um, I'm Selena."

"Oh."

"What do you want to do?"

"I dunno. And my name's not Um."

"Notum, then! Do you want to play tag?"

"I said, my name's not-"

"I know your name's Notum. You don't have to remind me."

"But-"

"Tag or no tag?"

"Tag..."

"Okay, Notum! You're it!"

"My name's not Notum..."

"Notum, Notum, you can't catch me!"

"I don't like you."

"That's okay, Notum, because I like you. We're friends."

"Well... I guess I like you a bit..."

"Friends?"

"Friends."

"Catch me, Notum!"

The dining room is exquisite. Hand carved, tall backed chairs, long, elegant table just at the right height for nearly everyone. The silverware is actually silver, and I'm nearly positive the china is actually bone china. The kitchen door slides open and my host slowly turns as he hefts a fine brass soup bowl, steaming fresh from the stove. "It's a delicate Tomato bisque, with some fresh herbs. Do be careful, it is quite hot." He smiles largely as he serves it into my shining china in front of me. "There's a fresh loaf resting on the counter in there, if you'll be a dear and wait just another moment, I'll grab it." He spins and silently marches back into the kitchen. I haven't the patience to wait, since this soup smells divine. I sip lightly on a half spoonful. "This is absolutely incredible! You've outdone yourself, Dr.Lecter."

I would most definitely choose Aenea, the messianic figure from The Fall of Endymion and the sequel to it, the Rise of Endymion. We would meet for drinks (the adult version of Aenea, as she is supposed to be a beautiful woman and I'm no pedophile) at a small, hole-in-the-wall restaurant that I just discovered in Sayreville, NJ, called Nunzio's Kitchen. We'd have a glass of red wine and talk about her journey down the River Tethys, and maybe about the physics of love. I'd have to go to the bathroom, and when I come back, I'll take a sip of my wine. She'll tell me to drink up, and I down the whole glass. Then she tells me that she's put her blood into my wine, and I admit that I already knew. She'd smile at me and take my hand, and we'd teleport to another place, another time, and make love like no others have.

Congratulations! You're here!

But it's a difficult time to write and the hunt is still on, retracing a lost sacred code whilst trying to escape from the sameness of the well travelled road.

Culture and class are becoming binary; zeros and ones, principles; arbitrary, oppression between a rock and hard place; mandatory - for zeros at least - stretched paper thin over pillars and posts of soulless pursuits and disappointing role models. This is an intellectual graveyard.

The question I find, for everyone, zeros AND ones of our fragmented house shouldn't be: Why do you support new writers? The question should be: Can we afford NOT to invest in the thinkers that will become writers?

I liken the tools of writing to carpentry tools because they sometimes need sharpening, restoring like those on a workbench. If you want to write, need a morale boost or a bit of support then the community of 'Prose.' can help - other times you need books.

Our interpersonal tools, when used effectively can help us shed our differences and prejudices as we come together on the worlds stage to build a house, call it a home and live in it.

Support new writers!