Wednesday, February 15, 2017
I started writing as a child before I could properly write or spell (the spelling is still iffy). The words I didn’t know I would illustrate with crayons. No one told me I couldn’t but I can’t say I ever got much encouragement either. As a child I loved the older fairy tales much better than the saccharine disneyfied ones. I liked Morticia Adams and vampires and werewolves. My interests as I got older were shaped on the reading that I preferred: old Gothic horror books that I found (and could afford with my allowance) at garage sales. And a few years later new writer had emerged that I read as soon as his latest hit the stands…you may have heard of him? Stephen King. He has been moderately successful….
Fast forward a few years (“few” being a fluid word) and I am furtively typing snippets and poems and ….things…into a computer and pushing send. Don’t bother looking, I was A. Nony. Mous.
Books are my passion, my friend, my plane ticket, my warm blanket, my burr under the saddle. One of the best things about being a part of the writers tribe is finding previously unexplored books, artists, authors etc. It can be a little disconcerting to have some one write to me about liking my poems better when they thought I was a man. (Ummm….sorry?) Since my poems aren’t easily slotted into a specific genre I have been known as more of a ‘dark’ poet. I leave it up to the reader to decide, everyone has a slightly different interpretation which I find endlessly interesting.
Writing is just something I do, need to do, have to do. I get a phrase or a song line or an idea stuck in my head and am not happy until it’s (safely) down on paper. It’s the language I love the most, love to lose myself in. Twisty words and lines that turn and shift… and may bite if you don’t pay attention.