Searching for a suitable...

...self-publisher has become my task for March. As I said in my previous blog, what I want for my 3rd book is beyond what my previous publisher can do at a reasonable price. So, today I have sent out questions and queries to several other publishers with hopes of finding a suitable one...and already, I have had responses and am very hopeful. Of course, that doesn't mean I have stopped writing...oh no, I am now working on book 4 and 5 simultaneously!

Book 4 is a revenge story written in two distinct styles. Style one is told from the thoughts and speech of the main character and is all ye olde english. Lots of "thou" "thy" and "nary" involved. Style two is told from the actions of everything else around the main character and is very blunt and short. The thinking in me going down that route is to extenuate the simplicity of what is happening outside of the main character whilst at the same time show his own madness and thought patterns crammed with metaphors.

Book 5 is actually a coming together of two poetry projects I have completed (one about words and the other which has sketches, poetry and observations in) and writing a third section to bring them all together. This is called "Words to be performed from under a table by the last of us". 'Words' is literally about words. What we use them for, how they are used and the context in which they are used as conceived by the main character. 'To be performed from under a table' is a collection of observations about the state of the world we live in and how the main character views it. 'By the last of us' has the main character wandering hell after taking his own life and attempting to make sense of everything. So, a lot going on at the moment! And some poetry below from my 5th book!

The Open Book

My spine has been broken,

pages of my story ripped apart,

words inside dead and stolen,

ink now bleeds from my heart.

Scattered about at my feet

commas and full stops die,

turned to ash in this heat,

not much left but a decry.

The open book sliced in two,

scissor writing pouring out,

letters begin to fade and undo,

losing what it was all about.

A wind disperses what is left,

forever gone in the night,

this all amounts to a simple theft,

and the end to an unwinnable fight.

 

The Suffer of Rain

Tiny pin pricks gently fall like feathers whispering in the snow,

grazing over bare skin as if teasing my senses with light.

Striking the ground tentatively and with an embarrassed hush,

they disappear in a fragmented star dust eruption of reaching digits.

Now with a little bit more meaning a waving blanket begins,

tucking over me in a harvest beyond the horizon.

A fine consistent wetness begins to seep into my being,

darken the ground I walk onwards to what I do not know.

Then comes the torrent undeterred or concerned with light,

a battering of ink marking my soul with determined words.

Crawling around and into every fibre of my corpse,

bouncing against anything it strikes as if re-joining the clouds.

And finally the suffer of rain becomes alive forced downwards,

slicing away my softened up flesh and muscle.

I feel my body fade away cut to pieces and butchered,

washed away amongst the rest of the sewage down hells drain.