For Writers

           Words are our trade. It is not enough to create a story, we must also be able to put it across. Meaning must be clear. Readers have not the time to read over and over again to make sense of it. To protect the reader from incomprehension and boredom, a writer has to insist on language which is specific, definite and self-explanatory. I mean one might escape illiteracy but not necessarily confusion.
           English is sort of a battlefield. With the perfectionists fighting off the bums cos they believe they aren't good enough to write a single word. Which is all bullshit to me. I mean they might not have a kobo to their name but somewhere along the line they managed to acquire quite an impressive vocabulary.  
             Daily the stream of language is polluted by viscous verbality. Meanings are clouded by vague abstractions, fine tuning conceals identity, and words, words, acronyms, ''senseless'' acronyms weigh the mind down. For instance, look what happened to ''poor'' people. They became ''needy'' then ''deprived'' then ''underprivileged'' or ''disadvantaged'' and oh in political terms, ''economically challenged''.
             I'm not saying I'm not guilty of some screws-ups and I'm also not saying every write-up has to be able to change the world with its power and emotion. I'm just saying its time we all took a moment to consider what it is we are really trying to say with our work. So have something to say and say it as clearly as you can. That is the only secret of style.

Rebirth.

she was conscious of other things happening to her. not only the acceleration of time, and the increasing intrusion of the past into the present so that memories of ten or twenty years ago had the sharp vividness of the now. she was also beginning to see reality in magnified close-ups, intimate and revealing. she had seen the pores in miss q's nose, the fine grain of the paper money in her purse. but not only the visual images. all her senses seemed more alert, tender and receptive. she heard new sounds, smelled new odors, felt textures that were strange and wonderful. all of her was becoming more perceptive, open and responsive to stimuli. it seemed to her that she could hear the sounds of colors and taste the flavor of a scent. she twanged with this new sensitivity. she saw herself as raw, touched by life in marvelous and sometimes frightening ways. it had all started with her first adventure, a night of fear, anguish and resolve. then, when it was over, she was flooded with a warm peace, an almost drunken exaltation. when she had returned home, she had stared at herself in a mirror and was pleased with what she saw. it seemed to her that, for self-preservation, she could not, should not stop. she was rational enough to recognise the dangers, to plan coldly and logically. but logic was limited. it was not an end in itself, a way of life. it was a means to an end, to a transfigured life. the adventures were a sweet justification. of what, she could not have said. her newfound sensibility was her reward. she was being allowed to enter a fresh world, reborn.

Filth

    All she felt was filth as she walked on and on, to no place in particular. She couldn't bear to look up, thinking everyone knew and their stares were out of disgust, believing that which was not so. Little did she know that they were in complete awe of her for all they could see was great beauty, not the rot she felt within. The rot that was wasting her away.
   The fallen star. The unchosen one. She couldn't seem to cleanse the monster of her soul within or ease the pain to rid the hate and self-loathing. She wished she could go back, just back to that  innocence she can no longer keep, that perfection she can no longer reach, for all she felt now was filth.