I have always been fascinated by words, their texture, their potency. I’ve experimented with words from a very early age, finding I had a knack for it. It became, and still is, a voyage of self discovery. In my teens, I developed the self discipline to write for six hours daily. I would go to bed early and get up in the wee hours to start and finish before school. When bored with classes, I would take out a notepad and start writing to pass the time. So, I became my own critic, over time, slowly finding what worked and what didn’t, what was good and what wasn’t. I remember high school English teachers asking me who my favorite authors were, after viewing my work. I always told them that I didn’t have one, which was the truth. As in everything else I did, I hated being a spectator. I would rather play a sport than watch it on television. I would rather act than watch a movie. I would rather sing and play guitar than listen to recorded music. Anyway, the teachers would always give me a disbelieving look, as if they’d thought I must be lying. I improved my writing by the hours spent doing it, not by correction. I was always too immature to accept the slightest criticism. So, I never showed my work to anyone, except teachers, when I had to do an assignment, or whatever. I was a sort of savant, with no explanation for why I could write well, just enjoying it. My intellect, I knew, could certainly not be blamed.
As an adult, I have learned the value of criticism by allowing others to critique my business writing. And, for years, in my married life, I stopped writing entirely, with the exception of reports and business letters. My pleasure writing returned, in fits and starts. I wrote songs and plays for church; then threw them away. Poetry came from a brief affair, then, I destroyed it, hoping to end my infidelity. Now, the longings of a middle aged man in a funk drool their way onto the keys of my laptop. I still have that, but for how long?
Anyway, I would, most definitely, never show my work to my wife or grown children, for two reasons really. One, they do not like my writing style. Two, the content of my writing would not be good for them to see. They only see my work in birthday cards and such, as I refuse to use anything but blank cards and imagination. So, I have decided to keep my real writing life separate from my family life. Therefore, the name you see here is a pen name only.
My writing, I have come to realize, is nothing more than my thoughts finding legs and walking out of my mind and onto the page, whether based on actual fact or stemming from a fantasy of mine, (more likely, a combination of both). As an entertainer, my desire is to see others enjoying my work. As an athlete, my desire is to tenaciously attack and experience every bit of each piece I write. As a musician, my desire is to feel the rhythm and texture of words as I create each piece. As a wordsmith, my desire is for others to experience, with me, my thought processes all over again, whatever agony or bliss they may give birth to. The experience will have been as intimate and deep as simultaneous orgasm. Perhaps, there will then be a kind of afterglow for me to experience with each of my readers. Of course, my readership may be limited to me only, which would make it more like the kind of humiliation one would feel after being discovered masturbating. The last statement is more in line with my vein of luck. Anyway, enjoy it, if you can.
You can email George at email@example.com
Click below for George's work
Arid Artifact (.pdf)
Drowning Man (.pdf)
Falling Apart (.pdf)
Forest of Darkness (.pdf)
Misc Poems 1 (.pdf)
Misc Poems 2 (.pdf)
Misc Poems 3 (.pdf) NEW!!!
Unreachable Eyes (.pdf)
What Do I Do With This (.pdf)