For Myself

“And what will you be when you grow up?” asked the man in a tone which conveyed a goodhearted teasing; he meant no harm implying that I, as a 19-year old, was not “grown up.” I am not sure what he estimated I would say. He was an elder gentleman, reminding me of a grandfather with his whitened whiskers and cologne created by the use of fine tobacco. In wait in my response I watched him, watching his eyes twitch with anxious flickers of pale light. I stretched my response, toying with the element of time before I told him that I would write of what caught my eager eyes.
“Hmmph,” he objected, caught with suspended jaws deciding how best to convey his obvious discontent with the turn this conversation had taken.
“Well what are you going to do to pay the bills, then?” he asked, eyes atwinkle in his assumption that now he has stumped me, now he would cause me to consider a career change.
I am proud of my chosen profession and the thought of earning the title of a writer is worth the immense student loans, the years of dorm life, and, even the disappointment I cause in people when they ask about my career. So many seem to think that writing is a pastime, not a profession.
I stand in defense of my passion. It would bring me so much happiness to spend the time of my life chasing down ideas, trying to capture them before they are taken captive by another writer. Opportunities of ideas exist in my life everyday and I would be taunted by their presence if I did not have the opportunity to participate in this hunt. The huge population of potential stories is startling; we as writers have a function of taming the crush of stories and turning them into something digestible for the general population. The very same people who are quick to suggest that writing is only a pastime are the ones who want to read our stories as they relax after days in their chosen professions. How would this man understand that I would be responsible for his future entertainment?
I cannot convey that to him or anyone else. Without a love of writing, people cannot understand what does drive us writers to pursue our passions. People cannot see what the appeal is for a writer to spend their days in the dark back table of a cafe into the unsensible hours of morning. To them, I can say only this. Dark cafe corners are quiet for a reason; so many secrets are kept back there, so many secrets only a writer can see.

Word Search

Alone in the vast quiet of a deep silence my breaths steady, streaming into relaxing patterns. Here in this place of calm quiet is where I should be able to put pen to paper and expell the creativity which turns into words. But my creativity is not coaxed into cooperation by peaceful places; I find an empty page before my empty ideas when in an empty room.

From what I have been told, quiet corners of cafes and lonely beaches provide most writers with the place in which they write. When I visit Starbucks I smile secretly at those on computers, for I assume them to be a writer such as myself. Writers have declared in interviews that the best writing occurs when one is confined in a place where noises cannot separate the magic dance of pen seducing paper. Writing is a solitary activity for most; is it because perhaps this magic art does not perform for witnesses?

What have I done wrong, then? Upon putting myself in a place of perfect peace, I feel only pressure; pressure to produce a piece of writing. This pressure can be increased when I am in a picturesque place which would inspire more in most people. On a recent visit to a sandswept, golden beach where only the wind coming off white waves interrupted the secret place in my brain where thoughts reside, I found no words. I looked to the water, waiting for a perfectly finished poem to glide in on the waves: nothing. Peace was the warmth I felt on my back and the tickle I felt in the squiggles of sand between my toes, but peace was empty; it brought me no words.

Words do not come to me in moments like this, scrolling gently before my eyes. Rather, words fling themselves towards me, smacking in my brain when I am caught in wild moments: tied in talk with another I sometimes catch a word with the side of my consciouness with a twack, as if it has been thrown from a great distance. Often when caught in wild pursuit of the end of a novel when I am reading, I will steal a word from the page and hold it; dazzled by the writing which it has inspired. My hands are not free to write, as they are tied up with the arts of living, so I write in my head. While my world spins excitedly or spirals downward, words write themselves within my mind. Caught up with whatever activity is occupying my world, I sometimes try to stop the voice which speaks words from within. But the voice is one of strength and it will not stop narrating until I take leave from whatever wild moment I am livinga and commit to paper what will later be regarded as a piece of writing.
So I live out in the open and do not confine myself. I find no words in silence or being solo. I can always search for the right words, but only when living life in full color, high resolution moments will the words find me.

Prism's New Issue Gail Peck's Poetry

What a beautiful poem Gail Peck writes about the simplest of human attributes; a poem about a hand. Writing is usually something I declare as beautiful because of its image-inspiring language; a poet must create three- dimensional images for readers from two dimensional words. Black and white words from a page must leap across the vision of the reader and inspire colorful thought. This is usually a principle which takes a great amount of words to complete; stories are, after all, words trying to inspire imagery in their length.
But "Sketch of a Child's Hand" is beautiful in so few words. Peck conveys the entire life and temperament of a person through the marks and shape of their hands.
The poem is about the hands of a child; innocent hands. Hands which
"Rubbed the fur of the dog’s back
velvet ears snout to tail."
These hands are seen by the reader as tiny, harmless. But how does the reader feel when they are told that these hands have been inspired after artwork by Frantisek Brozan, a child at Terezin Concentration Camp? Amazing how the blood of the Concentration Camp never made it onto the hands of this child. The hands of this child show his innocence; hurt coming only from
"Palm scraped on wire
Aching finger where the bee stung."
These hands, these hands. They tell so much about this child who is brought to vivid, three-dimensional color by Peck's words. The words dance across the page in front of the reader and take us for a journey, for a surprise, a marvel in the innocence of childhood.
At the end of the poem, we as readers have seen this child. And we feel for him. We want to hold his hand.

A Place Where Lovers of Lit Feel at Home

The immense availability of bookstores in the greater Los Angeles area is so overly imtimidating that there is no need to settle for visiting a chain-run bookstore. Going to a Barnes and Noble used to be such a treat for me where I lived; a trip there meant a three hour drive to a bigger town. But now, visiting a new indie bookstore or a shop specializing in science fiction novels or comic books or a used bookstore where ever book costs a dollar has become the new standard. But, amid all these bookstores which would cause most literature lovers to drool, Vromann's Indie Pasadena Bookshop in Pasadena, California fills all the quotas of what it takes to make a great bookstore.

A visit to Vromann's does not require anything more difficult than pulling off the street in a new, trendy looking neighborhood on East Colorado Boulevard. Upon entarnce, expect to be greeted by a cart of the most intriuging books: and they're on sale. A grand, attractive display of the newest picks stands before a staircase, filling your mind with fancies of new books to read. It is when you round the corner of the stairs that you see the enormity of this place the first level devotes a section to all genres and non-genres.

And all the shelves promote books in a very attractive, interactive way. Readers feel that they are compelled to pick up each book for examination. Careful perusing is nessecary to see all the books which reside here. And there are more than books. Cute genre- corresponding gifts sit along the great reads. The travel section contains travel dictionaries, maps, games for travellers like playing cards, luggage tags, journals, photo albums, and postcards among books about travel itself, planning a trip how-to's, the greatest places to visit, humorous books about how to kill time in airports, and travel diairies.

The collection of books seems to be of many tastes; one may pick up a humorous book on cat care, a comic book made for kids with new cats, an illustrated how-to on cat care, a book of cat care for dummies, a manual on cat care, or any of the above combinations. The favorite literature of the staff is on display near the other books and their taste seesm to be of mostly indie literature.

But you're not done with the bookstore yet. Upstairs is a gift and stationary section with quirky items like Anne Taintor flasks which feature a pictuer of a 1950's housewife saying "I like imaginary men best of all." A children's section resides on this floor, too and seems a bit like a playground where budding readers can play with toys and peruse children's books.

Separate from all the merchandise, there is a large set-up of chairs and a small stage. Here every Sunday night, an author is invited for a book reading and signing. Featured authors have included many local writers, but also some more prominent names in literature like Ursula Heigi, author of Stones From the River.

What more could this place have to make readers happy, I ask? Armchairs, perhaps, and food and beds, so readers would have no reason to leave. Ever.