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

Stuff I read while waiting to write...

 Check out Matthew J. Hall's site:  http://www.screamingwithbrevity.com


I long for the day when I can eat cheese and drink whiskey without interruption.

Stuff I read while waiting to write...

 Check out Matthew J. Hall's site:  http://www.screamingwithbrevity.com


I long for the day when I can eat cheese and drink whiskey without interruption.

Books I forgot about..

Something to read........© Charles Scott 2013

Books I forgot about..

Something to read........© Charles Scott 2013

Clubbing 1988

 A writing exercise that keeps me writing daily. Not a lot of words per day, but word count does not matter so much in this. Normally it involves a couple of paragraphs, maybe a sentence or two, or some obscure, archaic word along with definition written down to make me feel literary and ease my addiction to the act of writing. Some days I feel like a weaning puppy. The following is an addition to something I posted a few days ago. I have no idea which way this is going. Maybe Robert will score. Maybe Jenny will mace Robert and kick him in the gut as he claws at his burning eyes. Maybe they will date, get married and raise a child who later becomes a serial killer, or televangelist. One thing remains, it is still just an exercise.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”Slight editing (slight is an understatement) a few more words and still no idea where this is going.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”

As all of this is going on one of the bartenders slices his hand while cutting a lime; a hippie wearing something other than black, sticking out like a hippie in a sea of goths, sits in a corner attempting to light a joint with a spent Bic lighter; I am puking in the piss stained bathroom. The assumption from everyone close to me is that I am drunk. In fact, I am not drunk, but suffering from food poisoning contracted from a rancid gyro eaten a few hours prior.




© Charles Scott 2013

Clubbing 1988

 A writing exercise that keeps me writing daily. Not a lot of words per day, but word count does not matter so much in this. Normally it involves a couple of paragraphs, maybe a sentence or two, or some obscure, archaic word along with definition written down to make me feel literary and ease my addiction to the act of writing. Some days I feel like a weaning puppy. The following is an addition to something I posted a few days ago. I have no idea which way this is going. Maybe Robert will score. Maybe Jenny will mace Robert and kick him in the gut as he claws at his burning eyes. Maybe they will date, get married and raise a child who later becomes a serial killer, or televangelist. One thing remains, it is still just an exercise.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”Slight editing (slight is an understatement) a few more words and still no idea where this is going.

Clubbing 1988

The smell of smoke machine, dimly lit dance floor pierced by flashes of red green and blue with bursts of seizure inducing strobe guarantee blurry, red eyes in the morning. New Order's Blue Monday at a billion decibels turn flesh bags, dressed in black, into a synchronized dervish. Sweat, various body odors and stale vomit fill the air. Yet no one cares. --All everyone wants to do is dance.--

All conversations, if we were to read them in an email or text, are all CAPS!

Jenny slips on the sweaty dance floor, crashing on her ass. She is noticed by one of the many males similarly dressed in black, “ARE YOU OK?” he asks.

Jenny, looking embarrassed and perplexed replies, “NO, I AM NOT GAY!” She thought, “ Who asks that?”

“NOT GAY. ARE YOU OK?”

Ah, she thinks, that makes more sense. “YES!” She reaches to the back of her dress and notices that it is wet. “IS MY ASS WET?” turning her back toward the Robert Smith clone.

“NO. IT IS RATHER SMALL!”

Again with the perplexed look, Jenny just goes with it and says thanks, walks toward the exit.

Vampire Diaries follows her. They get close to the exit, and can talk in a normal register. “My name is Robert.”

“Jenny.”

As all of this is going on one of the bartenders slices his hand while cutting a lime; a hippie wearing something other than black, sticking out like a hippie in a sea of goths, sits in a corner attempting to light a joint with a spent Bic lighter; I am puking in the piss stained bathroom. The assumption from everyone close to me is that I am drunk. In fact, I am not drunk, but suffering from food poisoning contracted from a rancid gyro eaten a few hours prior.




© Charles Scott 2013