• Life,  Writing

    To What End?

    2 Comments

    For the past month, I've been writing about writing. Something I've found meta. Like Spike Lee producing a film on how producers produce films. Defeatist. Sounds like a dog attempting to bite its tail. One would expect Lee to produce real films. Maybe direct another film to the stature of Malcolm X (1992). And so writing about writing either really produces boring results or should simply not be considered as writing. A real writer should do actual writing - write interesting stuff. And there is nothing interesting about hiding manuscripts under one's bed.

  • Life,  Writing

    Finding My Pen, Again

    6 Comments

    There are a few things that expose us as writing does. It is like people seeing you, not naked, but without your very skin. You pouring your emotions like you would pour water into a mug then soaking up the pages with the very core of your soul, of your psyche. And I just decided that I didn't want to be vulnerable anymore.

  • Books,  Life

    The Autobiography of Malcolm X

    1 Comment

    Attempting to abridge such a figure, such an autobiography into a few prosaic words, and still emerge with a just review is a vain exercise. I shall shirk such an attempt from the outset. Be that as it may, I shall proceed to say in my nonetheless hackneyed words, what the book and the person were to me. I shall not fear re-inventing the wheel for this man's own life was that of re-invention.