Peace on Earth By William Carlos Williams

Peace on Earth By William Carlos Williams

On Poetry and Other Drivel

The following came about after reading a thread on Facebook about poets who don't read other poets in fear of being influenced by said poets. Somehow these stains also can't take criticism. I have been criticized and have criticized. I have also been banned from many a chatroom for being honest and free wheeling with my opinion. 

So feel free to offer your thoughts. I have the skin of dead elephant. 



 

Poetry... Just mentioning it conjures up images of lengthy assignments from an out of touch teacher who farts rhyme and dust. Maybe it brings to mind boring images of proclaimed love from one to another, ultimately lost on anyone else who reads it. Of course, there is the angsty teenage “my life sucks, suicide is the only solution” poem which no one gets except people who dress and look like Wednesday from the Addams Family. All of that can make the average person run away from poetry.

Poetry is mostly read by those who write it. Or so it seems. However, there is new breed of poet. The type of poet that screams to be read, but does not study or read other poets.

This breed is a pox on those of us who identify ourselves as poets. They are the people who flood the internet with some of the most godawful poetry ever. The real poets that I know and the dead poets (yeah, I just did that) all studied other poets and are /were inspired by them.

Now, I do not claim to be a great poet; nor do I claim to even be a good poet. I have written some shitty poems. Most of these have been written in a drunken stupor. After sobering up and reading the drunken scribbles I had enough mercy on myself and others to discard the poem into the trash, hoping it is not found on an archaeological dig some thousands of years later.

But I do have a list of poets I read on a regular basis. Great Poets. I don't just read them. I study their form. Let's face it, all good poets have form. I like to see how words are used, played with, manipulated into something that has the power to move the soul. The mental picture that I have had for years is that of the poet as a blacksmith; pounding out words with a hammer and the sweat of their brow. Poetry is a work that can drain a spirit and kill the faint of heart.

That brings me to a recent phenomenon. That of the internet poetry chatrooms and Facebook groups. Let me say that I do not think there is anything wrong with these sorts of forums. What I have a problem with is that there is no criticism of some really bad poetry. It's less a forum to make one a better poet and more some cyber circle jerk where everyone is a winner. It is in these forums where I find the the pimple on the ass of poetry.....the poet who does not read other poets..even the ones they are reading in the forums. These “poets” frequently post things like, “Great poem dude” and “Loved it” mere seconds after someone posts the poem. No, they are there for one thing only. And that is praise for mediocre, at best, poetry. I must warn you though, do not offer anything other than praises. The first time you tell these fragile punks that “hmm, did nothing for me” you are turned into the administrator for possible banishment.

Thin skinned little pricks if you ask me.

Years ago, before the internet made the submission process faster, I submitted a couple of poems to some editor in New York. During that time I had been submitting everywhere. One day I went to the mailbox and inside was a letter from this editor. I was expecting a form rejection letter. What I found, after opening the letter, was a handwritten note:

Mr Scott,

What in the hell was that? May I suggest that the next time you send anything that you first use a type writer. Your handwriting looks like it was written by a skid row drunk. Secondly, if you want to be a poet please take the time to read other poets. After reading, okay, deciphering your scribbles, I can see that you have heart and quite possibly potential. However, what you submitted is shit. When you get serious please send it my way. Until then save your postage money for something else.

Sincerely,

Mr New York Editor

I will always remember that letter. I do not remember even sending to that guy. He had the decency to not return whatever it was I submitted. That period in my life was spent drunk and what not. It was common for me to get drunk, write a few poems and send them to some editor I found in the back of writer magazines. I had a lot of rejection letters. Still do. Now, when one bites I feel a little apprehensive; as if it is some sort of cosmic joke. I wouldn't have it any other way. It is much better to have people tell what they think than to have them lie to you.

So to you little emotionally needy poets out there blowing smoke up one anothers asses my advice is this: grow a pair and read some other poets.

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! --and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier. Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in a hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automo- biles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe? - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15306#sthash.DcxSJlW8.dpuf

© Charles Scott 2014

On Poetry and Other Drivel

The following came about after reading a thread on Facebook about poets who don't read other poets in fear of being influenced by said poets. Somehow these stains also can't take criticism. I have been criticized and have criticized. I have also been banned from many a chatroom for being honest and free wheeling with my opinion. 

So feel free to offer your thoughts. I have the skin of dead elephant. 



 

Poetry... Just mentioning it conjures up images of lengthy assignments from an out of touch teacher who farts rhyme and dust. Maybe it brings to mind boring images of proclaimed love from one to another, ultimately lost on anyone else who reads it. Of course, there is the angsty teenage “my life sucks, suicide is the only solution” poem which no one gets except people who dress and look like Wednesday from the Addams Family. All of that can make the average person run away from poetry.

Poetry is mostly read by those who write it. Or so it seems. However, there is new breed of poet. The type of poet that screams to be read, but does not study or read other poets.

This breed is a pox on those of us who identify ourselves as poets. They are the people who flood the internet with some of the most godawful poetry ever. The real poets that I know and the dead poets (yeah, I just did that) all studied other poets and are /were inspired by them.

Now, I do not claim to be a great poet; nor do I claim to even be a good poet. I have written some shitty poems. Most of these have been written in a drunken stupor. After sobering up and reading the drunken scribbles I had enough mercy on myself and others to discard the poem into the trash, hoping it is not found on an archaeological dig some thousands of years later.

But I do have a list of poets I read on a regular basis. Great Poets. I don't just read them. I study their form. Let's face it, all good poets have form. I like to see how words are used, played with, manipulated into something that has the power to move the soul. The mental picture that I have had for years is that of the poet as a blacksmith; pounding out words with a hammer and the sweat of their brow. Poetry is a work that can drain a spirit and kill the faint of heart.

That brings me to a recent phenomenon. That of the internet poetry chatrooms and Facebook groups. Let me say that I do not think there is anything wrong with these sorts of forums. What I have a problem with is that there is no criticism of some really bad poetry. It's less a forum to make one a better poet and more some cyber circle jerk where everyone is a winner. It is in these forums where I find the the pimple on the ass of poetry.....the poet who does not read other poets..even the ones they are reading in the forums. These “poets” frequently post things like, “Great poem dude” and “Loved it” mere seconds after someone posts the poem. No, they are there for one thing only. And that is praise for mediocre, at best, poetry. I must warn you though, do not offer anything other than praises. The first time you tell these fragile punks that “hmm, did nothing for me” you are turned into the administrator for possible banishment.

Thin skinned little pricks if you ask me.

Years ago, before the internet made the submission process faster, I submitted a couple of poems to some editor in New York. During that time I had been submitting everywhere. One day I went to the mailbox and inside was a letter from this editor. I was expecting a form rejection letter. What I found, after opening the letter, was a handwritten note:

Mr Scott,

What in the hell was that? May I suggest that the next time you send anything that you first use a type writer. Your handwriting looks like it was written by a skid row drunk. Secondly, if you want to be a poet please take the time to read other poets. After reading, okay, deciphering your scribbles, I can see that you have heart and quite possibly potential. However, what you submitted is shit. When you get serious please send it my way. Until then save your postage money for something else.

Sincerely,

Mr New York Editor

I will always remember that letter. I do not remember even sending to that guy. He had the decency to not return whatever it was I submitted. That period in my life was spent drunk and what not. It was common for me to get drunk, write a few poems and send them to some editor I found in the back of writer magazines. I had a lot of rejection letters. Still do. Now, when one bites I feel a little apprehensive; as if it is some sort of cosmic joke. I wouldn't have it any other way. It is much better to have people tell what they think than to have them lie to you.

So to you little emotionally needy poets out there blowing smoke up one anothers asses my advice is this: grow a pair and read some other poets.

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon. In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations! What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes! --and you, García Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons? I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys. I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel? I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective. We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier. Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in a hour. Which way does your beard point tonight? (I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.) Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely. Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automo- biles in driveways, home to our silent cottage? Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe? - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15306#sthash.DcxSJlW8.dpuf

© Charles Scott 2014

Five Questions With Matthew J Hall

They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. They also try and tell us what beauty is. They also say that eating cheese and drinking whiskey is bad for you......What do they know? And who the hell are theyanyway?

To me poetry is more than rhyme and meter. It is more than a love letter. It is more than a lyrical picture of some natural setting. There is room for all of that stuff within poetry, just not on my bookshelf. No, to me poetry is a kick in the gut, raw emotion, coming from the darker, hidden recesses of our minds. An exploration into the caverns where all the bad things, the unpleasant and ordinary things, dwell...the stuff we hide or forget about.

There needs to be a bit of the soul in every poem. That is where the life is. A life not lived with rainbows and love songs, but one that is lived everyday....A life of the ordinary, in real situations, thinking real thoughts that we all think, but never talk about. That is the kick in the gut.

In this first installment of Five Questions I want to present to you Matthew J Hall. Sometime last year I came across his poetry in Kleft Jaw (an online lit mag) or from one of my many nights scouring the internet for good poetry. I remember reading the poem, “When We Were Kids” and was blown away by it's pensive quality. Like most people, I find myself reminiscing. Usually it is not about the spectacular events, but more the mundane stuff that actually shapes us. This poem reminds me of times spent remembering the little things, some good, some bad and how those moments molded me into the person I am today.

When We Were Kids

growing up in a small market town

we didn't have a shopping centre

or a cinema or a train station

the police station had two cells

the library had three sections

the museum had a penny farthing

my brother and I used to sneak behind the slaughterhouse

and lift the lid of a metal trolley so we could stare at the sheep guts

and the maggots therein

the stench was phenomenal

I can smell it now

our school building was white and held all the appearance of a hospital

during long summer nights of the sort that can only exist in memory

we would clamber on top of the roof and smoke our secret cigarettes

one of my teachers hung himself

a boy's father also hung himself

as did a boy a year my junior

all of this was before the age of mobile phones

my friends and I would make prank calls and laugh

inside of red telephone boxes

I stepped inside of one the other day

in order to reminisce

there was a fine black spider hanging from the receiver

he looked like he had been there for quite some time

I dialled a number and while I waited for an answer

I thought about suicide and rooftops

blue skies and cigarettes

maggots and discarded animal insides

Matthew J. Hall

Matthew J Hall is a poet in the truest sense. He puts on the page that which is in his heart. And that, a life lived in the day to day is beauty.

So is cheese and whiskey.

Note: There are links below that I wanted to cleverly insert into the text. However, I am not as tech savvy as I once was, so please check them out. You will not be disappointed.

Five Questions With: Matthew J. Hall

1. What/who inspired you to start writing?

I come from quite a musical family and started playing the guitar when I was about nine. I was too lazy to learn other people's songs all the way through so I started writing my own. When I was about ten, I heard John Lee Hooker's 'Boom Boom', even at such a young age I was blown away by the sound and raw emotion of it. Most blues songs tell a story. So, I started writing my own and continued throughout my youth. All these songs and stories were written into the pages of a notebook until it was full and then I'd throw it away. Not because I thought what I'd written was worthless, more a case of the pages having served their purpose. In some ways nothing has changed, no matter how pleased I am when a piece gets accepted, it's the actual act of getting the words down that inspires me to write. I didn't start seeking publication until the last few years and that was only because I had been writing more and more and started to feel that as it was taking up so much of my time, maybe I should do something with it rather than just continue to fill notebooks.

2. How would you describe your writing style? or describe your process

I generally write in the mornings because I work in the evening. I don't have a process in terms of structure and routine. I feel like too much of life is about turning up at a certain time and following process and procedure. The day I start writing like that, will be the day the fun stops and consequentially, so will the writing. I smoke a ton of cigarettes and drink a lot of coffee when I write. Most of the poems I've written drunk have been total shit. The first third of a bottle of whiskey is fairly sharp and creative, but then I get greedy and everything goes to hell. The rhythm's off and I churn out every cliché in the drunk-ass book. I never write hungover, the guilt won't allow it. I don't really know what my writing style is. I know I like the idea of writing with brevity, hence the name of my blog, Screaming With Brevity. Less is more, but only when it's written well. Particularly, in poetry I tend to be drawn towards the less verbose writers. I like poems that are lyrical without wasting words. For me a good poem will quickly remind you of things you may not want to remember.

3. What are common themes in your writing?

My poetry tends to lean towards the literal rather than the abstract, although I certainly do enjoy the metaphor. I've had my battles with addiction over the years and due to those experiences I'm quite interested in inner conflict, which shows up frequently. I have written some fairly dark shit, but hope is certainly a reoccurring theme.

4. What are you working on right now?

Writing poetry is ongoing for me and I get such fullfilment from it. Last year I really enjoyed putting together a few short collections of poetry and making them available online and this year I'd like to combine those books, add some some additional material and publish it as a print edition. Writing fiction, on the other hand, doesn't come so easily. A couple of weeks ago on my blog I announced 2014 as the year I would be focusing more on writing fiction and hopefully having some published. Those are the two main things I'll be working on this year.

5. Brushes with celebrity

I walked past Pulp's front man Jarvis Cocker in Hyde Park, London once. I don't know if they made much headway in the States but they were fairly significant during the whole Brit-Pop scene in 1990's England. I didn't really care for his band but I did enjoy the radio documentary he presented for the BBC last year on the life and work of Richard Brautigan

Question 3. www.screamingwithbrevity.com

Question 4. http://issuu.com/mjh1979

Question 4. http://www.screamingwithbrevity.com/fictitious-aspirations/

Question 5. http://www.brautigan.net/

#interviewmatthewjhall #poetry #fivequestionswith
© Charles Scott 2014

Five Questions With Matthew J Hall

They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. They also try and tell us what beauty is. They also say that eating cheese and drinking whiskey is bad for you......What do they know? And who the hell are they anyway?

To me poetry is more than rhyme and meter. It is more than a love letter. It is more than a lyrical picture of some natural setting. There is room for all of that stuff within poetry, just not on my bookshelf. No, to me poetry is a kick in the gut, raw emotion, coming from the darker, hidden recesses of our minds. An exploration into the caverns where all the bad things, the unpleasant and ordinary things, dwell...the stuff we hide or forget about.

There needs to be a bit of the soul in every poem. That is where the life is. A life not lived with rainbows and love songs, but one that is lived everyday....A life of the ordinary, in real situations, thinking real thoughts that we all think, but never talk about. That is the kick in the gut.

In this first installment of Five Questions I want to present to you Matthew J Hall. Sometime last year I came across his poetry in Kleft Jaw (an online lit mag) or from one of my many nights scouring the internet for good poetry. I remember reading the poem, “When We Were Kids” and was blown away by it's pensive quality. Like most people, I find myself reminiscing. Usually it is not about the spectacular events, but more the mundane stuff that actually shapes us. This poem reminds me of times spent remembering the little things, some good, some bad and how those moments molded me into the person I am today.

When We Were Kids

growing up in a small market town

we didn't have a shopping centre

or a cinema or a train station

the police station had two cells

the library had three sections

the museum had a penny farthing

my brother and I used to sneak behind the slaughterhouse

and lift the lid of a metal trolley so we could stare at the sheep guts

and the maggots therein

the stench was phenomenal

I can smell it now

our school building was white and held all the appearance of a hospital

during long summer nights of the sort that can only exist in memory

we would clamber on top of the roof and smoke our secret cigarettes

one of my teachers hung himself

a boy's father also hung himself

as did a boy a year my junior

all of this was before the age of mobile phones

my friends and I would make prank calls and laugh

inside of red telephone boxes

I stepped inside of one the other day

in order to reminisce

there was a fine black spider hanging from the receiver

he looked like he had been there for quite some time

I dialled a number and while I waited for an answer

I thought about suicide and rooftops

blue skies and cigarettes

maggots and discarded animal insides

Matthew J. Hall

Matthew J Hall is a poet in the truest sense. He puts on the page that which is in his heart. And that, a life lived in the day to day is beauty.

So is cheese and whiskey.

Note: There are links below that I wanted to cleverly insert into the text. However, I am not as tech savvy as I once was, so please check them out. You will not be disappointed.

Five Questions With: Matthew J. Hall

1. What/who inspired you to start writing?

I come from quite a musical family and started playing the guitar when I was about nine. I was too lazy to learn other people's songs all the way through so I started writing my own. When I was about ten, I heard John Lee Hooker's 'Boom Boom', even at such a young age I was blown away by the sound and raw emotion of it. Most blues songs tell a story. So, I started writing my own and continued throughout my youth. All these songs and stories were written into the pages of a notebook until it was full and then I'd throw it away. Not because I thought what I'd written was worthless, more a case of the pages having served their purpose. In some ways nothing has changed, no matter how pleased I am when a piece gets accepted, it's the actual act of getting the words down that inspires me to write. I didn't start seeking publication until the last few years and that was only because I had been writing more and more and started to feel that as it was taking up so much of my time, maybe I should do something with it rather than just continue to fill notebooks.

2. How would you describe your writing style? or describe your process

I generally write in the mornings because I work in the evening. I don't have a process in terms of structure and routine. I feel like too much of life is about turning up at a certain time and following process and procedure. The day I start writing like that, will be the day the fun stops and consequentially, so will the writing. I smoke a ton of cigarettes and drink a lot of coffee when I write. Most of the poems I've written drunk have been total shit. The first third of a bottle of whiskey is fairly sharp and creative, but then I get greedy and everything goes to hell. The rhythm's off and I churn out every cliché in the drunk-ass book. I never write hungover, the guilt won't allow it. I don't really know what my writing style is. I know I like the idea of writing with brevity, hence the name of my blog, Screaming With Brevity. Less is more, but only when it's written well. Particularly, in poetry I tend to be drawn towards the less verbose writers. I like poems that are lyrical without wasting words. For me a good poem will quickly remind you of things you may not want to remember.

3. What are common themes in your writing?

My poetry tends to lean towards the literal rather than the abstract, although I certainly do enjoy the metaphor. I've had my battles with addiction over the years and due to those experiences I'm quite interested in inner conflict, which shows up frequently. I have written some fairly dark shit, but hope is certainly a reoccurring theme.

4. What are you working on right now?

Writing poetry is ongoing for me and I get such fullfilment from it. Last year I really enjoyed putting together a few short collections of poetry and making them available online and this year I'd like to combine those books, add some some additional material and publish it as a print edition. Writing fiction, on the other hand, doesn't come so easily. A couple of weeks ago on my blog I announced 2014 as the year I would be focusing more on writing fiction and hopefully having some published. Those are the two main things I'll be working on this year.

5. Brushes with celebrity

I walked past Pulp's front man Jarvis Cocker in Hyde Park, London once. I don't know if they made much headway in the States but they were fairly significant during the whole Brit-Pop scene in 1990's England. I didn't really care for his band but I did enjoy the radio documentary he presented for the BBC last year on the life and work of Richard Brautigan

Question 3. www.screamingwithbrevity.com

Question 4. http://issuu.com/mjh1979

Question 4. http://www.screamingwithbrevity.com/fictitious-aspirations/

Question 5. http://www.brautigan.net/

#interviewmatthewjhall #poetry #fivequestionswith
© Charles Scott 2014

Frank Reardon....My next book purchase

My next book purchase.

 Frank Reardon



The Open Road of Your Bookcase

When a man has nothing but his
name and a mouthful of words, no
money just personal hate and inner
famine, when the road opens up in
front of his old beat up shoes, the
possibilities become limitless. The
cynics and elitists vanish. Those
doubt soaked ladies become tiny
incidents. The memories decide not
to pan out and the jobs could be
anything: fisherman, lumberjack,
miner, store clerk, or the priest
of a lonely heart.

The road is experience and truth.
It's the place of one thousand ghosts.
It becomes the palace of your open
mast (the one you simplify with true
grit and courage.) When a man has
simple things like notebooks, pens,
selected music, and powerful works
from the typewriter, he can see people
stripped to the bone. He can see a
man's blood pump on the outside. He
can tell what comfort really does for
the people of the arm chair relax. Art
never had a bigger challenge than that
of true passion taken by feet that truly
need to see the earth.

To see and to meet, to plunge the
knife in deeply, to taste and to seek.
I shall gain this knowledge by rafting
across the great colony of despair and
seeing the real suffering. The real deal
all over, not to look within the same
walls of one, two, or three towns, I shall
listen to similar winds across the plains
of my own sorrows and gain the slick
confidence that most will not even
attempt to try. I'm not better or worse,
but I seek formal gain and a card
player’s smile. When I leave your
town I will open my brain and suck in
your truths, and before I leave upon this
road again, I shall leave myself upon
the shelves of your bookcase.

Frank Reardon....My next book purchase

My next book purchase.

 Frank Reardon



The Open Road of Your Bookcase

When a man has nothing but his
name and a mouthful of words, no
money just personal hate and inner
famine, when the road opens up in
front of his old beat up shoes, the
possibilities become limitless. The
cynics and elitists vanish. Those
doubt soaked ladies become tiny
incidents. The memories decide not
to pan out and the jobs could be
anything: fisherman, lumberjack,
miner, store clerk, or the priest
of a lonely heart.

The road is experience and truth.
It's the place of one thousand ghosts.
It becomes the palace of your open
mast (the one you simplify with true
grit and courage.) When a man has
simple things like notebooks, pens,
selected music, and powerful works
from the typewriter, he can see people
stripped to the bone. He can see a
man's blood pump on the outside. He
can tell what comfort really does for
the people of the arm chair relax. Art
never had a bigger challenge than that
of true passion taken by feet that truly
need to see the earth.

To see and to meet, to plunge the
knife in deeply, to taste and to seek.
I shall gain this knowledge by rafting
across the great colony of despair and
seeing the real suffering. The real deal
all over, not to look within the same
walls of one, two, or three towns, I shall
listen to similar winds across the plains
of my own sorrows and gain the slick
confidence that most will not even
attempt to try. I'm not better or worse,
but I seek formal gain and a card
player’s smile. When I leave your
town I will open my brain and suck in
your truths, and before I leave upon this
road again, I shall leave myself upon
the shelves of your bookcase.

Coming Soon

I read. I read a lot. It is not uncommon for me to have a few books in various stages of reading, along with reading magazines, journals and literary magazines (especially online rags). What I am about to say is in no way a form of bragging, however, as a result of all my reading I come across a lot of really good authors and poets that most have never read.

I also think. I think a lot. Okay, I daydream. I have hours during any given day to think about a good many things. Story ideas. Poems. My bank account. So, while thinking the other day I had the idea to start something that would highlight some of the writers I have been reading as of late. Mind you, there is a bunch of crap out there, but there is also really good stuff out there that deserves to be read by people other than writers. What I came up with is quite possibly the most brilliant idea I have ever come up with. Of course I don't have many good ideas, so this is as good as it gets...

I have added an installment to my blog titled: Five Questions With: (insert writer here)

Each piece will highlight a writer or poet who I am reading and is willing to answer questions from an unknown writer. (that would be me)

I am hoping to have the first installment within the next few weeks. Keep checking in. I promise that you will not be disappointed when it finally arrives.

© Charles Scott 2014

Coming Soon

I read. I read a lot. It is not uncommon for me to have a few books in various stages of reading, along with reading magazines, journals and literary magazines (especially online rags). What I am about to say is in no way a form of bragging, however, as a result of all my reading I come across a lot of really good authors and poets that most have never read.

I also think. I think a lot. Okay, I daydream. I have hours during any given day to think about a good many things. Story ideas. Poems. My bank account. So, while thinking the other day I had the idea to start something that would highlight some of the writers I have been reading as of late. Mind you, there is a bunch of crap out there, but there is also really good stuff out there that deserves to be read by people other than writers. What I came up with is quite possibly the most brilliant idea I have ever come up with. Of course I don't have many good ideas, so this is as good as it gets...

I have added an installment to my blog titled: Five Questions With: (insert writer here)

Each piece will highlight a writer or poet who I am reading and is willing to answer questions from an unknown writer. (that would be me)

I am hoping to have the first installment within the next few weeks. Keep checking in. I promise that you will not be disappointed when it finally arrives.

© Charles Scott 2014