Flash Poem to Self: “Be confident, not sad sap, sipping quietly in corner bar:” On Writing, the Bohemian Lifestyle, and Balancing Art/Mind.

I will be confident — not sad sap, sipping quietly in corner bar.

I will be, act, speak with intention.

I will be finished, will shop my novel. 

Prologue to a Memoir: A Rough Draft, a Novel, a Working Confesson.

A strange thing happens when you begin to contemplate the end. It’s as if setting such a definitive goal opens the world to endless possibilities: a phone is buzzing,

From the Rooftops of Granada — an excerpt from my manuscript for ‘The Outsider.’ A Confessional Memoir/Novel on Identity, Love, Travel and Revolution in the Arab Spring.

I mean, it’s not cheating if nothing happens. Oh, but emotions run deep. Which begs the question: What’s worse, an emotional or a physical affair?

Opening lines: A Story About Identity, Revolution, and What it Means to Be a Modern Human. A Work in Progress #LiteraryFiction

Excerpt from The Outsider: A Memoir?
“The sky out my window is that fiery red which makes the heart swell with life and there it is again: that sensational expanding within my chest, rising to my throat, gripping and stinging my eyes.”

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Am I Fooling Myself?

Am I fooling myself? Despite many attempts to complete my novel the writing continues to be obscured by vague details and scenes fall apart before closing. I understand how scenes work, and spend hours a day taking notes on published authors –what makes their work flow and read so beautifully?– but I can’t seem to

Opening lines from an early draft of “The Outsider” : Feedback would be greatly appreciated!

It’s that feeling like walking through a dream. When everything glows a soft infusion or orange, red and gold as if the world has absorbed the sun.

A Glimpse of Granada

(from an old rough draft of The Outsider) It’s pouring out. The cobblestones are slick and the alley is narrow and dark and the sky above, that maroon storm-black. There’s smoke and exhaust hanging in the cold air. My breath is thick and the streets shine like glass below the lampposts. My pack is soggy,