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The Prime Writer - advertisement for myself

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It often occurs to me that if I hadn’t become a writer, I could have become an itinerant preacher or a terrorist. Since I could remember, I and the world have been engaged in a crisis of distrust. I think though that the balance of the fury tilts convincingly in my favour. I have always been a prime sample of that incorrigible specie which will not be domesticated. I was indeed a wild one as a kid, and it was considered unsafe to try to push me around.Growing up may have added a thicker cover of an amiable mesocarp , but unfortunately under that succulent flesh still resides the very hard indigestible nut.
I unashamedly believe in God, in spite of the popular view amongst most on the creative incline that such a notion is just not a hip anymore - an unfortunate view indeed. Candidly I think if you don't believe in God you have no future as a creative writer or a creative anything. By refuting the possibility of a 'super-creator' , by whose hands I was made , how do I then explain the source of the work of my own hand ; or more precisely how do they explain themselves ? The truth is that to the characters in my books, I remain God. Yes, I believe in God; and even though I remain eclectic in the study of philosophies as they pertain to the supernatural hordes, I am unashamedly of the Christian faith – bible believing, miracle believing, tongue talking believing. Nevertheless, I still regularly take gods apart to see what they contain, and I am unfortunately never able to put them together again. I really don’t think that the superintendent god of any particular religious conviction may feel safe with trusting me as vocal ambassador to their brand of “the only way”. I don’t have the discipline to become a serious preacher. I am yet too risky a believer.
So, ladies and gentlemen, instead of becoming a terrorist, which appears the only remaining option which my skills set suggests, I chose to become a writer. Why am I telling you all these? The reason should be obvious: if anywhere you ever see a book I have written being offered for sale, please purchase it. Buy it in appreciation of the enormous sacrifice I have made to keep the world intact and thousands of souls from being blown to kingdom come. Buy it in appreciation of the fact that I had not spent the hundreds of hours that went into the book on lesser diabolic activities.Buy the book, lovingly take it home and there proudly display it as a certificate of your own small contribution towards keeping the world in one piece.
How do I rate myself as a writer?Where do I place myself? A while ago, I started a separate Facebook fan page for myself and my writing – and I have done quite a bit I must tell you, but I thought what the point is? I have never been able to separate my personal life from my writing. I have never considered my writing as an occupation and I am surely not a recreational writer; I fiercely think that I am an unclassifiable writer –the existential writer. It is for nearly this reason that I don't do writers' meetings and writers’ readings – I personally think that the only sure thing that may be gained from such a congregation of writers would be a destroyed soul. Let me try and explain further: it is also for nearly the same reason that I have stopped submitting myself to writing competitions. I personally think the process places doubtful and often biased values to the results of a very spiritual task- it cheapens the art and the creative force behind it. Writing contests may perhaps work well for the tutored; their work may not be too difficult to judge – one against theother. They write to standard formulas; they write from within the academic box.
I have always lived my life outside boxes. Those times that I have ever tried to live the in-box life, like you wonderful ’normal persons’ out there have been most disastrous to my health. Put me in a behavioral box and I'd become confused and probably die from the claustrophobia.I read like crazy when I was a kid ; I indeed sort of ate story books to remain alive. Indeed if it was printed on paper, I’d probably take a shot at reading it. I was a verbivore. Naturally then, I grow up to create writings. I wrote my first novel while I was barely twelve. It was a fair-sized book I am sure, not at all a sparse pamphlet. Inspired by a school textbook titled An Anthology of Longer Poems, I also did fill some good sized exercise book with poetry of my own– from soulful sonnets that rhyme to astounding epics that were quite happy to be rendered in blank verse. My years of puberty ascending were drenched in creative afflatus. I was a literary lunatic in a small body; I didn't struggle with my writing - my writing was me. I would years later marvel that I had been able to do much. I would many more years later be informed that my dearly deceased father who had twenty one years before, been a foundation Assistant House Master in the same secondary school boarding house in which I lived had in fact been the first editor-in-chief and possibly creator of the house magazine. But I will come back to that bit a little later.
Yet, not for one day of the five years spent in secondary school did I consider joining such relevant clubs as the Literary and Debating Society or even The Dramatic Society, or even any other club for that matter. Indeed I think the only club that I have ever joyfully joined in my life was the Pyrates Confraternity, and only because they promised to remain enemies of the rules –they promised to play outside the box. Henry Miller and Patrick Suskind are extremely deep writers; I think anyone who seriously desires a unique voice as a writer should read at least one book each of their writings. Later in life they assisted me to get rid of my inhibitions as a creative writer with no physical mentor.Beyond them no other author has ever measured up as an influence to what and how I write. I cerebrate, create and curate outside the rules. I break literary totems without remorse. Alone, I daily walk that valley of the shadow of dearth into which hard-headed mavericks needfully consign their lives, and I also fear no evil. For I am funkier than any of the miserable mocking monsters that foolishly lay ambush on this deserted route.
So, where is my writing headed;where is the likely destination for this obviously unnatural disposition? The truth is that I don't know neither do I care very much. There is presently a great deal of fulfillment in being able to put words together on paper and then stand back to watch them tell you a story,entertain you, make you laugh and cry and make you alive all over. I think there is a divine purpose in this.

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