Introduction

 
 

 

''This is not bad writing, but it's not good storytelling."

-New York Times Book Review titled "Long March" of Joshua Ferris' novel "The Unnamed" published January 22, 2010 and reviewed by Jay McInerney.

 
 

A friend and I over the summer rented a movie because it was recommended by the girl at the rental place sitting at her post in front of a computer screen. It was a British production. It was about a woman who was an elementary school teacher. After fifteen minutes into the movie, I asked my friend to see the jacket of the DVD. "This movie has no plot", I said. He agreed. He pressed the eject button. We returned the movie on the day it was due back. On the walk from Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn my friend begged me not to say anything. I could not resist. He walked to the back of the store to check out the new releases. I lingered in the front standing on line behind a woman who credit card was defunct. The patron left saying she will clear it up with her husband. It was my turn. "So how did you like it," asked the girl at the rental place sitting at her post in front of a computer screen? I replied, with the movie in hand as if I was about to hit her on the top of the head with it, "It had no plot." The girl finally looked up at me and retrieved the DVD. It left my hand via a snatch. In between the beep from the scanner gun, she articulated, "The film has character development. It is all about character development." If I had known her like, back in the day… I would have replied, "I could give two shits and a horse's ass about character development." However the girl at the rental place sitting at her post in front of a computer screen was most likely a first year film student at NYU or maybe at The New School and a total stranger of no consequence to the health of my intelligence. "Interesting," the answer I gave and always give when there is nothing but nothing to say.

 
 

When I was in my early twenties I use to have a lot to say but no story to share because I was a character -- for sure. I was living on a blinding and addictive hysteria of broken hearts, self-righteousness, unyielding need to create and a hearty devotion to a spirituality in which I could never walk away from or abandon. I wrote poetry because it edited and saturated my emotions like if one could scratch pastel blue on a canvas until it was thick oil painted strip of indigo. In this present time in my mid thirties all I want is not to want to "I this and I that" all day long. To forget myself and find an empty page in a journal that was completed years ago. To write a story and a particular story in which living cannot arrest in photographs of smiles, benches on boardwalks, weak sunsets of overcast winter days and the etc.

 
 

Yes I do give more than two shits and a horses' ass about writing as far as the construction of a sentence. I am an architect of letters attempting and sometimes praying to articulate, however at end of it all I want a story in which the reader can live in and be sheltered. This blog titled The PRWL Chronicles is an effort on my part to do that.

 
 

May this be a perpetual incident of bumping into you on the way to supermarket or on the way to work or on the way to walk endlessly until there are no more thoughts on that problem, situation or person – may I be a pleasant interruption of your day to share with you something other than "I this and I that".

 
 

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