giving thanks 🙏
SIXSTRINGcpa is a voice used to interact with the external world and, as such, communicates a message, on behalf of all pen names I use but do not publicize, to each person buying and recommending my stories:
today I am (✒️️)
outlining | drafting | editing | revising | rewriting
a story snippet
'what is it that i should see? the shapeless same? or the vaguely familiar, the stranger, stranger than yesterday's?' ✍
i may have muttered
i believe there is a subtle but important difference between pretending and make believe. i love being creative and engaging in make believe — i don't, however, pretend!
moniker and man
[MONIKER] silhouette reminiscent of SHAW's unreasonable man admiring the acerbic wit of TWAIN. SIXSTRINGcpa is a Recovering Accountant — NOT a practicing CPA — transmitting in a style similar to I-IV-V barre chord progressions: simple and imperfect, occasionally with gain set intentionally high.
[MAN] humanoid with a big heart, and sometimes an even bigger mouth: a writer, a fighter, and a candlelighter. He is a curious observer, a guitarist, an honest analytic, an average kayaker but a n00b sailor. A passionate explorer of life, he paid his way through university, graduated with honors, and began his career as a certified public accountant, performing the rare accomplishment of passing all four parts of the exam on the initial sitting - he loves the irony given that he does not practice any longer and he calls himself a Recovering Accountant not a practicing CPA. While participating as a member in the proverbial alphabet soup gang - MBA/CPA (Inactive) - he performed to benefit both himself and his previous employers. Basically, he worked his tail off in order to fulfill youthful dreams and promises, and he still works his tail off. He writes and publishes under pseudonyms. He volunteers for the small grassroots children's literacy outreach charity he co-founded. Dr. Frankenstein is an apt description of his electric guitar playing: mulling about his basement laboratory composing rock guitar instrumentals that occasionally come to life. He enjoys dabbling in the culinary arts, and he would love to be able to call himself a sailor while keeping a straight face. He is committed to lifelong learning and has the uncanny ability, willingness and stamina to linger in museums and art galleries for extended periods of time: so long, in fact, he has been escorted off premises by security personnel for lingering beyond closing time.
drop him a note if you want to chat. he will respond as soon as possible.
✒ here there be rough drafts!
Q. Why share writing exercises and unedited rough drafts written under this pen name?
A. It is the SIXSTRINGcpa mantra: rock-and-roll is often rough and raw but some truths exist. Truth and honesty often get covered up in processes, creative or analytic. Whether intentional or not, censorship can creep into efforts through the process of refinement. It is this rough raw-as-honest philosophy that interests and influences this site (and any related social media outlets in use). Most people share only completed creations with others. It's rare to see people share the initial moment of their idea, at its birthing: when it is bloody, crying, screaming as it grasps for breath in its newborn state. Don't worthwhile truths exist then? at the stages of creation? before succumbing to the best to look your best bullshit of social pressures and expectations?
below is a reprint of an unplanned flash fiction story exercise I vomited out on 7-December-2016 and posted to twitter (see links). i was listening to a playlist and used songs as they played — one after the other — as inspirational seed material for each new line. i was screwing around, listening to music, taking a break from edits, generally fucking off and having fun. after editing and fine-tuning, i'll use the imagery produced by the exercise.
"Put the chemicals away," Mahler said. The ghostly apparition snapped, a tunnel appeared. We were off again.
Mahler hummed unfamiliar words as we sailed through time. "What is that?" "From a lost libretto," he replied.
We dropped out the tunnel & landed on the deck of a celestial ship pulled by [three] comets, piloted by an odd captain.
For ballast, the captain beamed nearby asteroids into the hold of the ship, that sank into swirling cosmic clouds.
"Have you ever sailed through an ammonia storm, Mr. Holmes?" I shook my head. Mahler smiled in anticipation.
Clouds stacked against clouds, made shapes that tricked the mind. The lightning flashed. I saw her face: Irene.
I heard Mahler through the thunder. "Stay with us Mr. Holmes! There is more to see."
Nemo piloted the ship, still tethered to the comets flying overhead, over a sea [of] mercury.
I peered over the gunwale. Inspected my distorted reflection skimming atop the liquid metal flowing below me.
I gripped the railing, the divan armrest at 221B. I'd not plunge into the liquid madness & awaited Watson's return.