Excerpt



We all have at least one alter-ego, that person hidden inside who we either wish we could be or who, over a lifetime, is a genuine part of us.

I have an obsession for nuances whether hidden in a word, a thought, or in a tenet of spirituality. I believe in the triune nature of most everything. Every utterance, written or spoken, prompts a different perspective in the mind of the reader or listener. Our understanding of those words initiates from the preponderance of prior perceptions, emotions and experiences we’ve had. We are creatures of our perceptions. There are many ‘truths’ in the collective mind. The ultimate Truth, I suspect, is unknown in this dimension.

For me, pulling from this non-ending source of inner rumblings is what gives the writer in me the courage to fly free above the rules and admonitions of genre and grammatical language. For a writer, metaphor evolves into the absolute. Fantasy can become fact, and dreams can become attainable goals. This is especially so if the words and the personalities are pulled from your very soul.



Simple lines of strung-together words began tumbling out of me on lined yellow paper as soon as I was able to draw clumsy, rather lopsided letters, probably the age of four or so. For nigh over sixty years now, I’ve been dribbling my soul onto a page. Its voice gave birth to Amber and Sucarha, and the words of my poems and stories. I don’t create them driven by a muse like most good writers do.

The objective part of my mind steps back and the subjective inner voices begin to sing of joy, love, gaiety, even silly fun. Perhaps they shout in rage! Perhaps the tone is of fear, confusion, hurt, or pain. The ebony of darkness or despair may linger in the shadows between the lines.

For me, no other writing genre affords more complete expression than poetry or impassioned poetical prose. Whether in a few but powerful words, a saga, a column, article or for-my-eyes-only ramblings, it’s one of my three personalities talking.

Philosophies, principles, perceptions, and experiences emerge in verse. Memories stored for decades, or hopes for that yet coming, sing out with the crescendo of a symphony, the passion of a compelling solo, or simply . . . humming silence.

Before I can take you back to Maine with Amber, I must share how Amber came to go there.