The treasure hunt

I write for a living. People actually pay me to work with words through various mediums.
On most days, i feel like i have the coolest career on the planet but unfortunately thats not everyday.

When you get to do something you love for work it can easily start to feel like work. How do you make what you once did for fun retain the joy?

My answer has always been to embark on a treasure hunt. Rediscover everything about your passion that once gave you chills. As of recent i have been writing and although what i was producing was incredible i lacked enthusiasm for writing period. I wasn't excited about my work/gift anymore. This is not to be confused with writers block because writing wasnt the trouble. I was getting seemingly frustrated with my feelings toward the page until today.

I embarked on a treasure hunt. I turned to reading when writing upsets me and long forgotten on my book shelf was a copy of The dead emcee scrolls by Saul williams. I decided to finally read it. Each page left me in awe of language. This book is filled with untapped inspiration for my own writing. I am lost between saul's simple genius and my own stream of flow.

Your task is to begin your own treasure hunt for the pleasure of writing that brought you to the page in the first place!

Happy writing,
The azul smocker

The treasure hunt

What To Write???

Pen – Check!

Paper – Check!

Myself – Check!

Idea of what to write - ????

Last night, I had all the available listing of inscribed tangibles except a simple idea of “What To Write???”

Well, while thinking intensely of what I was in the mood to engrave into my empty notebook, I came up with nothing of interest; I suppose it was just one of those nights of writer’s block. Enlightened inspiration was no where to be felt until I received an enthusiastic message from a Facebook buddy:

“Don’t think about it. Just put the pen to paper and see what comes out! Just share what comes out if it’s not too personal. Spread your art! ~ Anonymous

With illuminative excitement, I could not help but agree by responding:

“Word! I will paint freely with no regrets! (smiley emoticon)”

So, the statement “Spread your art!” really caught my eye. With those reverberating words, I took the advice and wrote whatever came to my consciousness and exercised my pen rigorously until I fed my paper enough ink to satisfy its insatiable hunger for vicarious thoughts.

Lesson Learnt:

As a reminder, don’t worry about what you write, before initiation; just transcribe whatever is on your mind. Brushing up and editing will come later.

Most importantly, enjoy the moment rather than focus on how the inscribed façade is going to be displayed for viewing pleasure.

Thank you anonymous Facebook buddy!

I bid adieu for this week.

Until Next Time!

Jeff L.

Smock Salute!

Messy Monday 6/13/11

Our Smocker’s entered Panera Bread, our usual place of choice for meetings. It seemed the most intense of our meeting this far, with adding Theirry’s friend Amy into the mix – with her first time reading her writing in front of others.

We read our respective pieces on Friendship. Theirry read a short story called “uncommon” Jeff read about a love interest that has the option to retain a friendship called “Friends – to be continued.” Blue read two poems, one written in 2008, and the other in 2010 about the same subject matter, which is a mutual friend of ours. You can see the progression of the friend as two years apart. Erica stole the show, with her piece called “Growing Apart.” My piece was called Friendship and Personal Legend. You can read it for yourself here:



The most intense part of the meeting was Erica bringing a box that was called “Writer’s Tool Box.” In it we played a game where we drew sticks that had a sentence, or phrase. WE were all responsible for taking this and writing about it for 2 minutes. Add two other sticks and you got yourself a short story in a short amount of time. Good touch, Erica!



For next week, we drew some phrases on a card from the Writer’s Toolbox, and we are making a piece on intuition. Good luck smockers!

Until tomorrow.

Ralph, The rambunctious smocker

The Birth Of Ideas

Last week upon active reading, specifically The Zahir by Paulo Coelho, I came to the self-inquiry of “Where do the ideas come from?” Is it some type of serendipity that is drawn from the vastness of clouds or spontaneously, they come to us at a moments call upon worthiness?

For most writers, they are receptive to these drawn intangibles differently from the next one:

“Writing is one of the most solitary activities in the world. Once every two years, I sit down in front of the computer, gaze out on the unknown sea of my soul, and see a few islands – ideas that have developed and which are ripe to be explored. Then I climb into my boat – called The Word – and set out for the nearest island. On the way I meet strong currents, winds, and storms, but I keep rowing, exhausted, knowing that I have drifted away from my chosen course and that the island I was trying to reach is no longer on my horizon” ~ Paulo Coelho (The Zahir)

This week, I met a mathematician-tutor, also an aspiring writer, and somewhere along our conversation, he mentioned that these invisible images are harnessed from this “Muse”. Maybe so, hence I wrote this poem:

"Muse (Deity Of Ideas)"

From your heaven,

you have continued to bless my empty soul.

Feelings of joy, anguish and anger are embedded within my sleep.

Finally, to be awaken by your spirit.

Enter through me and share the same emotions that bring forth feelings.

Blood for my ink.

Energy for my fingertips.

Body for my paper.

Bless them with your holiness.

Bless them with your grace.

Bless them with forgiveness for we have sinned.

We are the same built in your image.

Vicariously, living through you.

The unseen figure.

Appearing out of nothingness.

An omen to my prayers.

I lift up my heart to you.

Sanctified be the beauty.

My Muse.

An idea that travels like the speed of light.

Infinite space is yours.

The stars and planets are offerings to my inhabitant.

To create a new world with just a simple stroke.

My conclusive epiphany – No matter the writer’s natal inspiration, it is summoned at some fateful random occurrence that is eventually transcribed from the depths of our soul to be understood through marriage of ink and paper. That is the beauty of it all.

Jeff L.

Smock Salute!

Messy Monday's - 6/5/11

Our penned heroes met at Mario’s Pizza while discussing all things writing. We all discussed our respective pieces on sex, the taboo subject.

Erica read a piece called Oracle Bones, which was an awesome poem touching on the fallacy of falling in love based on Sex. Theirry’s piece was called untitled, and it discusses girls that interrogate him if his true intentions are doing the deed. Jeff read his first short story to the group, called “So Effin’ Hot” based on one of his experiences with a young lady with a bar. Blue had a lovely story of a man that walked by her one day, where she noticed the trails of broken hearts that were behind his stride. This piece was entitled, “The Square.”

My piece, entitled “25 to life” embarked on me channeling my inner-younger me, when I was a consummate player. Here is it in it’s entirety.



Next weeks topic is on Friendship, selected by Jeff.

Until next time.

Numero Uno Smocks - Ralph

Thoughts of a nocturnal writer

Sometimes it feels as if I can only write when its night out. When the sun has retired its glow and the sky has become the darkest navy blue happens to be the perfect time for me to pick up my pen. Now, I've heard many reasons for this that range from my heritage to the magical power of twilight but I've learned not to question it's origins.

I actually wait each day to see if I'll be moved enough to mark up blank pages with my thoughts. Most times its worth the power nap I'll have to take later to make it through the day. My advice to you is to find out which time of day sparks your best writing and get personal with that time. I know I do.

Here's my Ode to nocturnal writing:

Poem #1: A crime of passion [what i remember from a dream]

I tagged up a Barnes & Nobles
Last night

Covered the walls in Shakespeare

Left scrabble tiles in aisles
Spelling out ransom notes
For the classic novels
I held hostage behind bookshelves

There are graffiti bombers
In the bathrooms

Portraits of negro leaders
Hang over each section
Conversation over starbucks

Pages of poems ripped from the spines
Of artists and journals
Laid carelessly in nooks
Of corners that hold
Bean bag chairs filled
With black eyed peas

Smoke and mirrors
Take over the self help section
Hippies ponder over politics

Made confetti out of magazines
To throw at a kiddy party
In honor of doctor Suess

Painted on the walls
Murals of meaning to readers
Who are always falling in love
With books that are banned like me

I tagged up a Barnes & Nobles
Last night in language

Signing off!
The AZUL smocker