Hi, friends and readers, subscribers and first-time-site clickers. I have big, beautiful news to share with you. I published in The Closed Eye Open, which is an impressive literary journal boasting beautiful art and great writing. If you’re looking for something new, creatively speaking, to delight and inspire you, I recommend reading The Closed Eye Open.
Together, let’s speak sweeter words, and we’ll spark better worlds.
Alexander Dunford
Inspiration for A Nod To Derry’s Son
Do you love Robert Frost? Do you love living in rural, picturesque New Hampshire? Well, I can say yes to both questions. However, Frost’s faithful are found anywhere-but-local; his admirers span the globe. This is credit for writing poems which painted and printed specific images of a noble New England countryside. He wrote about a land hard and untamed, but where solitude is easily found. He showed us inside beautiful and brief moments of times fleeting and mortalities remembered.
There was a time when all I ever knew of New Hampshire was Robert Frost. Now that I live here, I experience her, this state, through his voice. These leaves and lakes, rivers and mountains, still sing for anyone who will listen.
Before I met my wife, Frost’s lines were the only images I had for reference. I compare this experience to what I imagine it would feel like discovering Rivendell is a real place. Wink!
And that’s what this poem is about: it’s not just an ode to Robert Frost, but an ode to his Muse —New England herself. Derry is a town, it exists today, and it takes me about an hour-and-a-half drive from my home in Wolfeboro, NH, to get there. This whole state is a beautiful, even magical place. No wonder New Hampshire is considered an artist’s paradise.
How To Read The Poem
You’ll read my poem online on The Closed Eye Open’s website. A Nod To Derry’s Son, by W. Alexander.
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New in Art
Portrait of _________, by W. Alexander
I clocked thirty-nine-hours creating this piece. Not one minute of time counted was paint drying. Nope! I made this on my new iPad with the apple pencil in photoshop. You can view this piece and other creations on my gallery page. Soon, you will be able to visit view my entire portfolio in Virtual Reality. Follow to stay-in-touch.
Tell Your Friends and Fellow Creatives About Me
Go ahead and repost, comment, share, email, whatever, my post to anyone who you know loves writing. Together, let’s share sweater words and write better worlds.
“…I hated him and his kind. I hated his affluence, his expensive clothes, his chiseled looks, and the arrogance he was born too. But most of all, I hated the power he held over me, his assumption of authority, and the truth of his superiority.”
Most of you don’t know that I married a celebrity (Olympian and professional ice-dancer) and that we, now, abode in picturesque New Hampshire. Recently, she interviewed for SKATING Magazine. I will brag on my wife every chance I get.
Today, I talk art. I want to share about how much I love to create; that is, I want to show you how writing changed my life.
For those of you who have stumbled on my blog for the first time, here is a quick introduction. My name is W. Alexander, and I am an artist; I am a writer. I am thirty-two, married to a smoking-hot, perfect ten, and I have two kids in diapers. Our family calls New Hampshire home—a writer’s paradise—, and, well, there you have it: I am a writer in New England. However, as you will see, I am also a budding painter and illustrator. As for my day job, I am enrolled full time at University, and I am a stay-at-home modern dad.
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Ever since I was a small child, I wanted to be a writer. Perhaps, you too wanted to do something you felt passionate about and naturally drawn toward, but life did not pan out as hoped. That is what happened to me. I spent my entire twenties following the “rules.” I devoted myself to work, and I prided myself on clocking long hours of hyper productivity. I was the poster boy for the disillusioned American capitalist, and there was little room left, within, to spend time on my passion, my beating-heart, my calling, my writing. So, like all things left unused, my skill decayed—I had forgotten, it seemed, everything I ever knew. In order to write, and write well, I would need guidance; I needed to study creative writing. Ultimately, at thirty-years-old, I went back to school, and am earning a degree in Creative Writing. That was two-years-ago, and, now, I am set to finish my degree in March, 2022. So far, it is working out. I published, for the first time, this spring.
Many writers declare you cannot learn creative writing, and I think, for the most part, they are, excuse my French, full-of-shit. The arts are like anything else: if you want to get better, you have to work and selfishly carve out a schedule for your writing and push yourself beyond what you know and what is comfortable.
Yes, you can learn craft, and any writer worth his salt is devoted to craft, period. So, obviously, grammar and syntax are teachable, but what someone means when they say, “you cannot learn writing.”, they are talking about style, voice, and the artist’s attention to detail.
“What I took from this book? Stephen King is not superman, and neither does the aspiring writer need to be. King makes it clear, writers are made in the trenches, and those who put their nose to the grindstone, and never let anything stop their writing, succeed.”
One thing I know well: Art demands all of you. You can have no Plan B’s for life, or as one of my favorite song artist said, “The greats weren’t great, because a birth they could paint. The greats were great because they paint a lot” (Macklemore). The same laws apply to the art of writing fiction; if you want to be a good writer, you have to write. Talent makes you decent, obsession makes you great.
Once, I dedicated my life to writing, not to become famous or rich, but to do what I love, I have experienced incredible personal growth. Has it been easy? Hell no! Has it been the best experience of my life? Yes. If my wife asks, tell her she is the best experience. I am a writer, and that means, human psychology is my canvas. To write well, you have to write what-you-know, and your knowledge about what motivates, scares, angers, and affirms the individual person are the brushes you will use to paint page after page. The greatest thing about only writing what-you-know is there is always an excuse to keep learning. The bigger your worldview, the richer your work. All writing is autobiographical, it cannot be avoided, so writing helps me stay oriented as a person, neighbor, citizen, and lover.
—W. Alexander
Come back next week. I may speak more on the subject. Again, go ahead and follow me and share my post with those you know it would benefit. Also, feel free to contact me and discuss the writing life.
Trust me…, stopping and noticing the details around you is life’s most generative experience, not only will your writing improve, but so will your mental health.
I wrote this story in February, 2021. I consider it one of my best pieces, artistically. I talk a lot about writing, and I want to share my own short story. Here, is an example of my passion for fiction. Share with me what you think.
This story is my intellectual property, and I provide no provisions for anyone to copy or download my data.
Worlds Apart
By W. Alexander Dunford
The long, thin esplanade snakes between the brackish waters of the Charles and the city—Boston. Here, under a dogwood tree, Chris wrestled back and forth with his future. The late morning sun transformed these muddy waters into polished glass.
The parkgoers beetled away, jogging and walking, stretching and splashing with the occasional laugh. Next to Chris, two dozen college students executed in solidarity a yoga class as couples passed with hands held, and others went about engaged in lively conversation.
Chris noted an exception to all the commotion: an elderly man feeding a flock of geese. The old man laughed as he spread breadcrumbs in all directions over their honks, delighting in their greedy squabbles over his generosity. One bird chased a crumb to where a girl was posed upside-down, and inches from her mat, it hissed. The old man chortled when the girl screamed and chased away the goose by hitting it with her blue tin water bottle.
It seemed months since Chris, too, laughed so hard. Today was a sunny Sunday morning and two white clouds snailed high above the skyline where a plane towed a banner advertising tickets for the Federal Theatre. Chris, for once, had nowhere to go and nothing he had to do this morning. Tomorrow, everything would change, and he may never see these waters again, or hear the city buzz behind him; he would begin his new life in Wyoming. It was God’s Will; the church declared this, but he doubted it. Watching the old man incite the geese, for a moment, gave him respite from the pain of losing his city, his identity, his normal. He closed his eyes, sat up straight, and let the sun touch his face. He began to pray. If only I could hear your thoughts, Lord.
Chris remained unmoved until something nipped his heel; he was alarmed to find several geese had, in fact, swarmed him—honking and hissing, prodding and squabbling, while he heard the old man laugh.
“All right, all right, leave the man alone,” the old man said and waved off the geese. He placed his bag of breadcrumbs in his coat pocket and joined Chris on the bench.
Chris shrugged his shoulders and willed his gaze on the river. His jaw was tight, his face flushed. He wanted to think; he needed to relay over and over how he got to this place. But no matter how hard he traced, he could not figure out why he felt punished. He wanted to be left alone.
“Sorry about your coffee, young man.”
Chris looked down and discovered his latte spattered over his shoes. He sighed and glanced between the old man and the geese that watched them both from a close distance. The old man offered him a napkin. Chris flung the napkin over his shoulder, stood up, looked around, and focused on each breath. He was in no mood to be grateful, so he started to walk off. When he stepped onto the esplanade’s path, a squadron of agitated geese confronted him. His face turned pale, and he slowly stepped backward before he bumped against the bench.
“You’ll want to sit awhile longer,” the old man said. “Those birds won’t bother me, but they will make a sport out of you.”
“Make them move.”
The old man shook his head, “I’m not going to do that.”
Chris turned to the old man; his mouth opened. He squeezed his fists and inhaled a deep breath. Lord, please don’t let me hurt this old man.
“Now, that’s no way to pray.”
“Do I know you?” Chris asked scratching his head.
“You do most days, but I’m here all the same.”
Chris would have walked away that instant if it were not for the, now, encirclement of waterfowl that restrained him. He glanced back-and-forth between the geese and the old man. He marveled how this man marshaled these birds; how they halted their honking and hissing and remained standing and guarding like sentries.
“Sit,” the old man said.
He wanted to go as far as his legs could carry him. The old man made a clicking sound, and the circle tightened. Chris obeyed. The old man smiled, pulled a pipe out of his jacket, and sparked a match; the smoke smelled citrusy and sweet. Chris’s body relaxed as the smoke filled his lungs: his stress, his fear, his anger all vanished. The troop of geese fluttered in formation and disappeared behind the trees.
“It’s frankincense,” the old man said.
“Who are you?”
The old man dragged on his pipe, producing a glowing ember, and inhaled more smoke; he smacked his lips, smiled, and still holding the pipe between his teeth, he wiped the ash from his fingertips. The smell reminded Chris of Mass, and his delight when this scent filled the parish: children’s noses crinkled, eyes watered, and all the faithful kneeled. Then he remembered that this morning’s 7am Mass was his last. He had announced his reassignment as tears cascaded down his and the congregation’s cheeks. He had spent ten years serving and leading, teaching and learning, and he winced at the thought of restarting.
“I am here to help.”
“I don’t need any help.”
“You did wish to hear my thoughts about Wyoming, did you not?”
Chris felt like a statue; he found it impossible to speak. He ran his hands through his hair. I’m crazy, he thought. Wake up, wake up, wake up. But every time he opened his eyes, he found the old man smoking and smiling, as if reading and listening to his thoughts.
“This is no dream.”
“But that would make you God,” Chris said.
“Nothing gets past you,” replied the old man.
He noted to himself to later look into medication. The God of Abraham doesn’t just show up in Boston. The old man laughed again, delighted with himself. This is some kind of joke, Lord. Help.
“What do you want?”
“I already told you. To help you.”
Chris resigned himself to playing this through and composed himself. He peeled his gaze from the old man’s face—blotted by blemishes, moles, and yellow teeth—and turned toward the river. Chris spotted a fleet of sailboats pilot the current, racing toward the ocean. Laughter and joyful shouts carried over the water. Scents of gasoline, saltwater and frankincense hung in the air.
“Okay, why do I have to leave?” Chris asked. “If you’re God, help me understand why I have to leave a life that makes me happy.”
“I am! And I don’t consider your happiness when I call. You are needed, and you are able, therefore you must go.”
Chris let these words sink to the dark depths of his heart. He knew them to be true, but as he closed his eyes images of his friends, his congregation, and his accomplishments permeated his thoughts. How was he any better than the martyrs of yesteryear? They gave up everything. I’m afraid I will fail there, and I will hate it, he thought.
“Worrying over the future costs real people the help they need today. My plan is mine alone, and Wyoming is where I want you,” the old man said, and inhaled another drag of his pipe.
“Why?”
“Because when you trust me to send you there, others will trust me to invite them to paradise. And besides,” he chuckled. “I said so.”
The sun beat down on Chris as he mulled over the old man’s words. When he opened his eyes, he saw the old man had vanished; and above the trees, he watched the troop of geese fly east toward the risen sun. He exhaled. Amen.
This story is my intellectual property, and I provide no provisions for anyone to copy or download my data.
My grandfather’s funeral is today, and I have had a difficult week. Therefore, I haven’t come up with anything clever to share. However, I thought I’d do something different: I would share a special post: examples of my artwork. I first began learning to draw with a cheap how-to book in September, 2020. Before that, I could not draw a stick figure; I have come a long way in seven months. I, of course, know there is, yet, a longer way to go, but I am proud of my progress.
Between writing, art, and school. I have made it through this pandemic and given my life a new direction. I will be adding a photography page later this year: I have several pieces collecting virtual dust, lol.
Again, to all my followers and subscribers, I love and appreciate you all. This blog and the work I’m doing with it has given me the excuse I needed to live my best life.
I hope you enjoy it. God bless.
W. Alexander
Shakespeare
by W. Alexander | Pastel
Ramses II
by W. Alexander | Conceptual 2
Pooh
by W. Alexander | Conceptual 2 | *I made for my sister
Hey, everyone. I am excited to add another page to my website. I, now, feature some of my favorite sketches, and soon I will be adding graphic art. My artwork will not be joining my blog posts, but will abode on a page of its own—regularly updated. Be sure to go to my website, if you’re reading this via newsletter, and check it out for yourselves.
I have been teaching myself to draw, and, now, I want to share my creations. Five months ago I could not draw a straight line—no lie!
W. Alexander Dunford I will never forget the television’s blue light that night fifteen years ago. Leonardo DiCaprio’s Blood Diamond played. Outside, beneath black skies, rain pelted our windows and the house’s bones braced against high winds. Thunder shook the walls. It was Father’s idea to watch the movie. He loved violence, and I loved…
