Tramadol Nights – Reading and Writing the untold story


Hey Everybody,

When high dosages of Ibuprofen meet up with Tramadol magic happens. I can sit up now for 20 minutes before I have to lay down again. I am a little groggy and my stomach feels cooked like it does after drinking too much tequila. But I here I am writing in a drug induced euphoria. I wanted to talk about writing for a moment, since it is something I cannot help doing.

To be a great writer you must be a great reader.

The caveat is that you must read for technique, you must be well versed in deconstructing texts.Reading a hundred books is great but understand how those 100 authors used allegory, diction, structure etc is superbly important.I had an old school teacher of rhetoric. He used to tell us that we must read with a pen at all times and a small notebook to take notes. The basics of writing are few like the letters in the alphabet, but there are endless ways we can bring them together. We would be given passages like this probably a little longer  and we would be told just to “Comment”. We were graded by our perspicacity. and how we could articulate our insight. It was like seeing technique in action.

So anyone wants to take a stab at this one with me ?

the-seaThe Sea by John Banville

They departed, the gods, on the day of the strange tide. All morning under a milky sky the waters in the bay had swelled and swelled, rising to unheard-of heights, the small waves creeping over parched sand that for years had known no wetting save for rain and lapping the very bases of the dunes. The rusted hulk of the freighter that had run aground at the far end of the bay longer ago than any of us could remember must have thought it was being granted a relaunch. I would not swim again, after that day. The seabirds mewled and swooped, unnerved, it seemed, by the spectacle of that vast bowl of water bulging like a blister, lead-blue and malignantly agleam. They looked unnaturally white, that day, those birds. The waves were depositing a fringe of soiled yellow foam along the waterline. No sail marred the high horizon. I would not swim, no, not ever again. 

Someone has just walked over my grave. Someone.

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