Click on magazine at end of blog post, for original source of dictionary and more. I’m not claiming copyright here, and I don’t think there is much of any. But if the person who originally copy edited the words wants, I will take the picture words down and then take the hour to copy edit them again. lol. This is for fun man, ya dig?
Book might be republished in the future. Needs some major editing. Was at a low point in my life when I was drafting it. But before I write out something new about my favorite President, thought I’d share. PS. Thanks Obama. I’ll take a swell, to a job well done.
(first sample, then questions)
Social media and neural networks, the evolution of artificial intelligence and what intelligence means, what makes up an intelligent being? The possible evolution, and or, the changing concept of death connected to a more technological driven human culture, keeping family members alive through mediated projects, such as three dimensional avatar creation, correlating networks into an artificial likeness of a loved one now dead. Shared like a tweet, or a picture book, that is stored in the new library of Alexandria named the cloud. What does this mean, and how could this impact our culture? In not just relation to dead and living, but our emotional pallet which has stayed pretty much the same for thousands of years? Also, in relation to job creation and the future of the reporter and data collector? How will this impact the future of the journalist and the freelance writer?
A new short story collection, is coming soon, written by Andrew H. K.
(when you’re a young writer, or maybe they did, you just wouldn’t have listened to them anyway, because you’re a rock & roll star: A random guide made on the go, for other humans that like making books with words. By Andrew H. Kuharevicz)
One: Making a book takes a long time. Years not days or weeks. Like you used to believe when you got your first typewriter and wrote nonstop for a week, making a narrative about your travels down to Saint Pete for three days, one of them stuck in the Atlanta bus terminal, inspired by the totality of an obsession, to be a great American author and nothing else, later to copy edit into a friend’s computer, staying up for three more days in the Florida heat, then believing you’re the second coming of Jack Kerouac and not bothering to justify the paragraphs, or even care to spell correct or any of the professional mumbo jumbo sorta’ things, that a human being who likes words, should do when they’re making a book. Because you already have a *gnarly (when you’ve gone beyond radical, beyond extreme, it’s balls out danger, & or perfection, & or skill or all of that combined) cover that a good friend made and a bunch of words, and so you think the book is good to go, a real classic. But then as y0u get older you find out that the book needs time to grow, just like you, and that the mistakes you find later on negate the finished product, almost entirely. Remember, making books, takes a long time. For example, I’m working on one now, only a hundred and thirty pages, give or take, 41,532 words, and I’ve been working on it for three years. Making books is like gardening. You have to—wait—for the harvest, before you can farm the produce, and still, you have to wait, you have to work, you have to sleep and wake up over and over again, because it takes many steps before you can sell it at the market. Making books takes a long time. Don’t believe the fabricated image. There’s no big bang. Only a slow cook. Thank you for reading. THE END.
(I suppose this could be labeled as an old school writer’s notebook entry)
After cleaning my place and washing dishes, made some coffee and took a shower. I’d say that it was about half an hour of mental prep work in order to calm down and get to the place where I could comfortably edit.
About an hour and twenty minutes I was working on my novel. My vision was the story and the words were the senses, and it did take a while but I got back to where I needed to be. There was the sound of random steps of pauses then steps of the fingers typing. Never sure but then you have to be sure if there will ever be an end.
There are so many decisions all asked at once. No. This is good, just good enough, forget about the words and style and let the story be itself, detached from the control of the mind, and it sounds funny, but this is what it takes for the inside fan to become one with the outside arctic wind.
I was there, at real nice quiet point, and then as I was moving to the next paragraph I hear four gun shots, then one more, a total of five divided by point three or so seconds of separation, it’s a real motive pull of the trigger, no rifle range, no American boys be boys Sunday evening target practice, and when I heard it—it sounded like it came from right outside my window cause’ my desk is next to the big one near the back towards the woods, and so I couldn’t write anymore and I thought about calling nine one one and telling them, but for some reason decidedly I figure just wait it out and turn off the lights, hope for everything to settle down.
Half pissed at existence for interrupting me, I was upstairs in the dark looking out the window down towards the street looking at the panels of long church window reflections all at once as a couple of cop cars drive slowly by and then circle around, and then it’s quiet again and dark.
It has now been less than Fifteen minutes, and I’m still standing there when there’s more squad cars crawling down the street and an ambulance and now it looks like Christmas lights in a mirror and I can’t really write anymore but I have to because I have to finish the book.
And being a writer isn’t easy, and as you get older there’s no coffee talk and silent university walls. There’s you and there’s the society out there—that you’re hoping to capture a glimpse of with prose, and then, when random things like this happen, part of you wants to run over to the scene of the crime without hesitation, like you did when you were younger, maybe to help, but you know you couldn’t. Because it’s over. What’s been done is done. But still you think about going outside, if only to see if you got close, to what you thought it would be like, even, if you don’t know what that is.
But you can’t, because you don’t know what’s out there, and you have this instinct inside of you that tells ya’, that if you die, well then you won’t get your work done, and it’s sad, because right now, sometimes, it feels as if that’s the only thing you care about. Completing the painting.
The sound of a gun is a scream of madness. It sends chills down my spine and (if it turns out to be reported) it’s the third killing (or attempted one) I’ve been within a short proximity to in the past four months. And I don’t like it. It’s not material. It’s a sickness. It’s bullshit. I don’t know. Maybe it is normal and everyone is desensitized or have moved out but me. And I know that’s not true, but maybe, it’s time to try and be an adult author and see if I can get a nice coastal residency. One not in the middle of a postindustrial war. Just great. More wishing well literary dreams of being relevant, and in the end, probably nothing more than hours of stamped paperwork that nobody will read.
Maybe this is where I belong. Maybe this is the writer I will always be. But whatever the future will materialize into nothing will ever surprise me more than the insanity of our species, and so below is what I was working on when the shots rang my nerves, and instead of coffee now there is beer and typing this nonsense instead of pacing before what I’m sure will be a restless night of trying to get to sleep.
These words are taken from a novel that I’m working on called The Fear & The Going. As always, Thanks For Reading.
This is taken from a novel I wrote and released in the summer. It is called, From Far Out There. It is a mess of a pretty good book. I regretfully edited it in a messy and very small kitchen of a house that I was crashing in located inside of a town I just ended up in after I had to get off the bus. Overall, it was a necessary step to take I think as a writer, and it’s a good read, and so on this numerical sequence on the calender I was reminded of this section in From Far Out There, that is half and half based on what did go down. But as Hemingway said, it could be, truer than true. Enjoy. If you want to buy a copy of From Far Out There, go HERE!
Another Day In May. ?. Fiction Theory. Summer Notebook. 2014. Page Nine Of Second Moleskine. Written By A.H.K. Draft Proofs. West Vine Press.
THE MEMORY OF a brain never skips a beat. There’s no such thing as a hangover. Slowly in silence it all comes back. I remember everything.
End day and new night, and the three of us, Conrad, me and Slaughter, were sitting a bar called Taxidermy and a girl asked, “You want tequila?”
End night and new day, and this happened, maybe or maybe it is fiction…still, I remember everything. I wrote it all down.
Tequila. That’s all it took and bam. After the tequila there was a stranger who said he was a Celtic folklore from the wilderness. His beard looked like it was made out of grass and twigs and he was always plucking a banjo or playing out of tune metal solos on an unplugged electric guitar, and after the tequila, there was a week of raves and hallway sit-downs and bathroom speakeasies, there was unrehearsed hip hop in garages and in the rain and there was college students and business men and women and doctors and nurses and veterans of wars, and some of them were playing with hula-hoops and chains made out of fire, and there was a house behind the university, and it rested directly down the hill in the backyard of the biggest graveyard in the city, and for seven days, there was punk and it rained tequila, and she had a pickup full of it, and after the tequila there was seven days of monster trucks and broken porches and broken talks and broken screen doors, and for seven days there was tequila, and the tequila wouldn’t run out for seven days, and this happened, probably, and the memory of a brain never skips a beat. There’s no such thing as a hangover.
New day and new night on little to no sleep. Seven days of tequila and across the street there were young kids with their young drugs and everyone was dancing and after she asked us if we wanted tequila there was a harmony with the nature of good times, and everything was forgotten, and in seven days everything that happened before the first day would be remembered, but not for seven days, and it was Sunday and I woke up alone in the driver’s seat of a car that wasn’t mine. Slaughter was somewhere in the Upper Peninsula and I was locked out of the rental’s floor that I was sleeping on and Conrad was missing in action. It was Sunday. I don’t like Sundays, never have and I don’t know why, and I was sad because it was a new day and it was almost summer and my life was almost chaos. Total chaos…
It’s cold and I didn’t even finish one of my last cigarettes, and I cant afford to waste the vice to my addiction, bu