My latest one is Historical Fiction.
I have 2 more in the works.
As a writer I have to go places sane people do not like to go for fear of dirtying their clothes. To produce a realistic book or play or poem you have to look at all of life--the good, the bad, the painful, the tragic and the wonderful. For the most part it ends up in my work and doesn't stick to me long.
I have been a living historian for years and years, and currently am the chaplain for the 5th Ga. We portray what the men went through in the War Between the States, and tell the history of that time period form the perspective of the individual soldier.
I serve as a Major, and teach the period dancing on the side and call a few dances from time to time.
I am spontaneous, intelligent, and Irish
I still write, and enjoy camping and being papa to my 3 rescue cats
I rarely bite, and only seldom even growl.
Peretti, Grisham, Koontz, Conroy, Sparks all are on my shelf--or more likely on a chair or by my bed or someplace like that. Hemingway and Dickens and of course Shakespeare are visited with often as well.
Music.... well not rap. I prefer Classical --leaning heavily on piano and strings. I like folk and rock -- 60's 70's music. I actually like the lyrics better than the music and think folks like Dylan and Baez were great poets/artists.
Books and music
Coffee is way up high in the gottahaves!
My cat Wookie is something I might have to do without someday, but would not want to.
Most of my camping is circa 1860, but I love it
Clean socks are a must too!
I am so alone.
I stare at the stars above me, and try just to breathe.
How curious that the sudden awareness of my coming death
has awakened me to the fact that I have no one,
that I spent my life discarding loved ones
like poems that didn’t work along the way.
Faces flutter across my soul, and guilt overwhelms me
when I must struggle to put names on their smiles.
Images whirl like autumn leaves in a storm around each face.
As I grew older, piece by piece, I chose to move outside myself
those ideas and those people that cluttered my solitude.
Old friends; new friends . . . they were all the same.
I truly believed I did not have the stamina for them.
Like bits of granite they weighted my soul
demanding attention, gobbling more and more of my
precious internal moments.
I was fighting for my life!
I could not afford such draining ties.
I thought if I set them aside I would have the strength
for greater, more profound efforts.
Not for myself, but for the poems.
A solitary for the sake of the words,
and the poems required me to create a magnificent self.
All my strength went into that.
The splendid impostor.
There may be no tomorrow.
I am so alone.
I am old, and tired.
Fighting for one more day is too difficult!
A day is nothing.
Life is over, and I am condemned to spend
my last moments with a man I do not know at all.
A soft desperate laugh escapes my throat.
Blessed God! What a sparkling wasteland I carved in my heart!
For the sake of the poems.
We can talk, email, feed the ducks, or just be friends.
If you are real and you find me interesting; by all means, message me!