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Archive for the tag “novel”

Ray Bradbury, Albert Camus, and Me

shadow lines

I seriously just had the most amazing experience.

Reading.

First time I can ever remember a story becoming alive to me from the printed page.  Full of colors, and smells, and stars. 

Then, it merged into another story I had read, elsewhere.  Full of heat, and death, and regret. 

And the two stories became what I felt I’ve been living since I don’t know when.

That’s as deep as I’ve been in a while.

And I swear I have smoked no peyote.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

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#BuddhaBukowski

brick-bukowski-png

“I don’t know a damned thing in this life, but what is shown to me by life, itself.”

#Buddha Bukowski

 

This blogger is writing a novel.

I’ve never done that before, unless you count that failed attempt that ended after a hundred-and-fifty pages, back around the turn of this century.  A novel about a man, his thoughts, and and his coffee.

A man who was also a serial killer, but I digress.

I wrote it while I sat, alone, in a used book store at the corner of Torrance Boulevard and Prospect Avenue.  My store, as it was going out of business, in the midst of the small retail depression of post-9/11, America.

“Get out and buy stuff, people!  If you don’t, the terrorists will win!”

The doors of my store closed for good in April of 2002.  The only things I took with me were a few now-mildewed books, and that half-finished novel.  The only evidence of which is a single, printed copy on a hundred-and-fifty, eight-and-a-half by eleven sheets of plain paper, locked away, never again to see the light of day.

I buried that story, just like I buried everything else from that life.  I buried it under the books, under the years, under a lifetime of unfulfilled dreams.  Until a funny thing happened on the way to becoming someone else.  I became who I already was.  And another book was born.

Another book, and another character.

This day, in this post, I introduce you to the man who sat behind the counter of a failing used book store, invisible behind a computer screen, barely knowing where he’d come from, and not knowing at all where he was going.  The man who would one day write more than a hundred-and-fifty pages of forgotten words.

The man who would become fiction.

Buddha Bukowski.

In the months to come… because this is what the world of indie publishing has become in the years since I started writing… I will be dropping hints about this novel-in-progress using the hashtag #BuddhaBukowski, one of the two main characters in the book.  This, because it helps let the world know that I created a character with a very distinct name, and so that everyone who reads this post, or sees the hashtag across social media, will, by using it, help me welcome this book into the public consciousness before it ever hits the shelves.

More to follow…

Stuff and Things

stuff and things xI’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again,

“I am NOT a blogger.”

I know that’s confusing, for bloggers and non-bloggers alike, because… BLOG.  THIS BLOG.  THIS BLOG you are reading.  Right NOW.

So, for those who don’t know me well…and that would be most of you… here’s how I have navigated the phrase, “I am not a blogger”.

I am a writer.  First and foremost, beyond all other labels, I am and will always be, a writer.  Not a blogger.  Not a poet.  Not an author.  A writer.  Even though I maintain a blog, and I have a whole book of published poetry.  So what, for me, started out as a blog, then became a place to post what I’ll call, for lack of a better term “content”… like a podcast which ran its course in just 13 weeks, uncategorized things I had written in the past for two websites I was no longer current with, and finally, poetry… it all seemed out of place for the form known as blogging, or at least what I had come to know as “blogging” from a few of my fellow bloggers, most of whom I barely read.

Until this year.

This year, everything I knew changed.  All the stuff and all the things.  About life.  About writing.  About blogging.

I went from writer to author, seemingly overnight.  With the unforeseen help and tireless teaching, editing, and emotional hand-holding of a friend and genuine blogger, I finished and published my first book.  Then, over the remainder of the summer, without warning, I saw what blogging really could be.  Not for expanding my contacts list.  Not for sales and marketing.  Not even for the joy of having others read my words.

But for experiencing life through others, beyond my writer’s walls.

And, with this actual BLOG post, I’m ready to call myself a BLOGGER.  Finally.  Once and for all.  Without fanfare.  Just acceptance that what I’ve been told is true, and there’s an entire world of writers and authors, bloggers and humans, out there.  Beyond my walls.  Beyond their own walls.  Ready to say hello.

So, without knowing what I’m doing, today I am Bill Friday, blogger.  With no agenda, no axe to grind, and no idea what I’m doing.  All I’ve got is a title.  These posts, mixed in with the poems and podcasts, will be known as “Stuff and Things”.  Because, as my friend and genuine blogger has told me on more than one occasion, that’s all a blog, and life, is really about…

The stuff, and things.

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