Scrambled Eggs by Arroe Collins

Published

2017-06-26T05:07:00.000-07:00

Listen to "What I Write" on Spreaker. In November of 2012 I was called to write a new book. One that would be unlike anything I've attempted. And yet my heart didn't offer any shades or shadows of doubt. Not until after the book was finished in the closing moments of 2015. It's now 2017. The book has finally been published. But not because of my efforts. A higher calling pushed the book beyond the place I dropped it. While daily writing these words took shape on the sheet of paper "All that I write is everything I am." Right away you might think, "Wow he's talking about himself." Not so! "All that I write is everything I am." That was a message from the Great I Am. That book came into being because God wanted the chapters to become visible. It's all documented in blogs and the daily writing. When the book was finished I allowed my walls of doubt and fear to consume the continuation of the chapters moving forward. After I assumed it was long gone from the journey the sentence appeared in front of me "All that I write is everything I am." Once I gave the book back to God. It was published.

Then It Happened. I Finished The Book

2015-08-27T04:05:00.003-07:00

August 26, 2015 Two years. Nine months. Twelve days. That's how long it took to write. Then edit. My new book Scrambled Eggs. Amazing things happen to your imagination when a writing instrument is allowed to live and breathe in the palm of your hand. What I held on November 14, 2012 was the Mont Blanc John Lennon. I used to think stories and books came from the imagination. Only to learn every element that went into making the writing instrument collectively created the energy to inspire a Poet to put down his Radio dreams and dance on a page. That writing instrument had a story to share and it needed someone willing to bend sentences. It hand picked what I've always called the Blizzard White Canvas. I can't wait to get back on a book tour. Not to promote the book. But to look into the eyes of other writers. Especially those that hide. Somewhere out there is the next great novel. I will find that person and help them out of the corner. November 14, 2012 I laugh at the image in the mirror. I taunt the shadows assuming to be hidden in the corner. Don't ask me about the number of times I verbally attack the irony of being a "Creative Expressionist." It is my addiction and without it I would have nothing. I can paint into place the exact details of what unfolded inside a Montana cold street salt dirty yellow school bus gliding through bails of crunched up snow toward an extended center for education. "I'm going to write a book!" I decided with confidence. Not my first. That falling of the finger prints onto the innocence of tree vines and memories of limbs belonged to a second grader at Ponderosa school. Without question, hesitation or attempting to run interference with normal kids play...I took a #2 pencil and pasted it to the tips of a very colorful imagination. Mrs. Keefe caught onto the scent of my road kill. How in God's name could a 2nd grader from extremely dirt poor south Billings fall into a hole so incredibly deep? Rather than push my printing habits toward Mathematics and through the ongoing series of Dick, Jane, Spot and Sally...she elected to enhance the arrival of what had been set free. Never judging. She'd sit anxiously nervous in an uncomfortable front of the room chair decorated with grading papers and notes from the principal and let me read what had been allowed to move through me. Junior high was a lonely experience. I was consumed, overtaken and or completely off track. Lost in theory, the process of being "Creative" had taken me toward music more than writing. I mean! It had to be what I truly wanted to become! Right? John Lennon wrote lyrics! The desire to write plus a passion to listen equals musician. How could I have been so wrong? I had spent so much time in elementary school chasing books never realizing the biggest destination was to be the combination! So...everything I touched, smelled, devoured before and after school and held onto tightly even while dreaming was this horrible aching that comes with being associated with the building of someone's favorite song. Yeah ok... In a major attempt to keep me from dropping out of school three teachers dressed up in 1977 adult clothes at Billings Senior High agreed to let me write the very book given to me while riding without seatbelts over railroad tracks that should've been igniting other things teenage boys are supposed to lose control of. Not me! It had to be a book and it's title would be Halloween 78. The picture associated with this Blog is a snap shot of the rewrite in 1994 written while on the air at Sunny 107.9 in Charlotte. NC. Was there silence in the writing between 1969 and 1977? I wrote poetry. Gobs of it! As sick as it sounds...I still have it and each time I hold it my aging frame bursts out in laughter. My handing writing hasn't changed. Nor have the word formations and oddly shaped sentence structures that I've vowed to never let go of. It's my accent! Halloween 78 was finally published in 2011. It wasn't my first. That honor belongs to Another Man's 1,021 Thoughts which was supposed to be a book of poetry. That all went to hell while doing research and I discovered the depth of what I had written didn't unveil a face to which I was influenced to follow. I found peace in sharp, jagged and completely out of tune quotes jotted down before sunrise inside my daily writing. My first published approach wasn't supposed to be this kind of book! I still hate myself for selling out! Especially since the publisher listed it under the category of New Age Religion. I knew something was horribly wrong when the first round of books hitting stores came complete with unedited cussing on those pages. Although I had edited, then edited then edited six more times...the publisher still printed the wrong material. That big mistake cost them control. Plus if you get your hands on one...collectors of first editions dig that sort of s***! Another 1,021 Thoughts was put into play because I can tell you exactly what was going through my creative process during September 11th and after. The frickin book isn't about me. It was released to open your possibilities to documenting where the hell you've been on this long ass journey that time will soon erase from your memory. Vividly like it was six seconds ago I can still count the tears exploding from my eyes the moment the voice said, "You're going to write a book. It's going to be called Conversation with the Devil." My first success as a writer. I've heard from readers in Korea, Russia, France and from extremely religious pissed off people in Charlotte that still scream, "You are so wrong!" I laugh... What else does a crazy person do but laugh? Book ideas fly into me every second of every day. I don't sleep at night because passerby's from distances undocumented feel they need to visit at all times. And then it happens. My eyes swell. My heart explodes. I look up at God and say, "Are you sure?" The tears get bigger. The mind rips away from fear while the soul opens a floodgate of energy that I could waste the next 30 years trying to explain but I'll lose you the moment I hit 140 Twitter characters. I have heard from the horizon. It has sketched out the echo and it's my job to give it a face. I'm leaving the daily, outrageously hilarious, engaging yet somehow spiritual path of Blogging to fine tune the lyrics of what will become my next book. I cannot cloud nor allow things to stand in the way therefore to release Blogging from my every day is to become the space required to put pen to paper, thought to process, imagination into destination. It will be well documented... Call this writing of a book the making of my next series of Blogs. Look sometime, when you have the time and I'm not saying spend a dime because Art feels better when the right person finds it and from their experience they begin to write. And that's why I was born. Somewhere out there is a wanderer...it's my job to locate the sentence that influences the tree to speak. At that moment words will begin to dance like fallen leaves racing for Miami away from winters unpredictable but tasteful bite. See you soon... I dedicate this writing journey to Steven Furtick whose book Greater teaches everyone to never stop believing in the one thing that means more to you than the next sunrise... You! November 15, 2012 You have arrived at the most perfect time. The keeper of this Blah Blah Blog only seems away. Written thoughts of chapters past decorate the halls for now. Please take the time to enjoy, empower and help deliver my reasons for locating a constant positive locked as well as lost somewhere in the center of a world completely addicted to negative vibrations. The author has been called away to paint into place collected sentences. Each paragraph is said to be the elements required to make a book but we all know I'm not into such music. Therefore, let's play it a different way. I've heard an incredible story and within the days, months, maybe a year upon my undivided return...it will be put on display. That is my guarantee. Thank you for your patience during this time of creative flow.

Unscrambling Scrambled Eggs

2014-11-05T13:21:00.001-08:00

I'm shocked that it's been nearly four months since I've shared a few paragraphs from my new book Scrambled Eggs. A lot has happened over the past few months. The author has stepped away and the editor has taken over. Oh Oh... lets hear his side of the process of writing.

Tomorrow's Stories Started Yesterday

2014-07-29T05:24:00.001-07:00

When you've been chosen to write. Most wanna walk away. The expectations are too big. Judgement from friends and family too heavy. The idea of being a writer is a lifelong journey of chance versus fate. In the middle of every step is a new word. A new idea. A misguided wonder. But how true are you to the creator that gave you the story? Is this a mission of wanting to be published or a goal to hear the true vision before others can see it?

Pen To Paper To Bookstore

2014-07-17T05:10:00.001-07:00

What if what you write had a deeper purple other than fill a trash can? Sleepless nights? Really? Maybe you should be asking about who is trying to speak through you.

The Veins Of A Living Tree

2014-06-25T05:13:00.002-07:00

How many times do you toss away chicken scratch? Words unevenly layered into the weaves of a napkin or sheet of paper. Can you count the number of times you've accused God of not talking to you?

The Making Of The Music Of Scrambled Eggs

2014-05-29T13:47:00.000-07:00

I have hated myself for becoming a writer and yet not a day goes by that I don't embrace the end result of what writing has done for me. I had been tortured badly by producers in 2010 and knew my music was finally over. Really? Do you honestly believe you can turn this crap off?

Scrambled Egg Shells Chapter 13

2014-04-28T10:57:00.004-07:00

In November of 2012 I gave up all my blogging to put focus on a book idea. Throughout the past weeks becoming months. The mission has been to find the digital e-book reader. To locate their path of decision making. Only to learn. Books aren't being finished. What? This is but one page of Chapter 13 of Scramble Eggs. Two friends. Their years together challenged by age. In separate places they stand. Their lives completely on un-level places of performance. Read more about the book plus hear all my interviews with the writers that have reached publication and beyond. Read more

Scrambled Egg Shells Part Twelve

2014-02-26T13:17:00.000-08:00

In chapter twelve Ocean Child meets with her longtime friend JC to talk of John's every chancing way. She brings with her a gift. JC doesn't seem so interested. Wanting answers more than flowers.

Scrambled Egg Shells Chapter Eleven

2014-01-31T13:48:00.002-08:00

Writing a book inside a world fed by a need to be on Face Book and Twitter borrows from the imagination its desire to want to hear the voices that helped influence the writer to put words on paper. In chapter eleven John is deeply challenge by the lack of his being. He still hears music. But has no way of recognizing the person that's putting the lyrics between his lips. Listen to other chapters:

Scrambled Egg Shells Chapter Ten

2014-01-07T08:49:00.000-08:00

Several years have passed. A public outing and barely a person recognizes the whereabouts of there being history. The three friends. In one place. Not a moment. But a shared existence. Gratefulness with there being fear. The fear of never knowing if such a walk through a New York park will or could ever happen again. The song featured comes from one of seven written especially for this book. It's called I Believe. It speaks of the struggles of what its like to be losing the one thing you have in life. The ability to love.

Scrambled Egg Shells Chapter Nine

2013-12-19T11:00:00.000-08:00

In Chapter Nine. John, Tailor the Mender and Facts the Figure return to the recording studio. John's is drawn away from the circle by a smartphone call. Tailor and Facts know he isn't speaking to anyone. Yet his reactions to the conversation are extremely real. Rather than interrupt John. Tailor the Mender and Facts the Figure text message each other.

Scrambled Egg Shells Chapter Eight

2013-12-12T08:14:00.003-08:00

In Chapter Eight John, Tailor the Mender and Facts the Figure are inside a recording studio agreeing their past is no longer worth the weight of being judged. Without witness they become one.

Scrambled Egg Shells Part Seven

2013-12-05T12:16:00.001-08:00

In this chapter John and Ocean Child playfully walk the streets of of New York City. They greet everyone with warmth and smiles. One passerby takes note of John. He's shy and decides to stay away. Until the moment John calls for him to cross the street. John learns of the young mans father crossing paths with him in chapters already written.

Scrambled Egg Shells Part Six

2013-11-26T13:44:00.001-08:00

Listen to the author share portions of his new book on I Heart Radio John and Tailor are in New York City. Sitting on a street side city bench. Sharing conversation about silence. John tries to blame his reasons for not communicating on everything but the true answer.

Scrambled Egg Shells Part Five

2013-11-14T12:09:00.002-08:00

Listen to the author read from the pages on I Heart Radio In Chapter Five John sits in Facts the Figure's New York recording studio staring at the numerous awards his friend has picked up over the years. Although he has troubles grasping onto the reasons of there being a celebration. John envisions the opportunity to sing. Not to piece back together a past that had been shattered. But to invite a woman found in the reflection of the highly polished award to dance.

Scambled Egg Shells Part Four

2013-11-05T13:48:00.000-08:00

Listen to the author read from chapter four on I Heart Radio I believe modern readers are setting books down too quickly. Our imaginations fight to find what the writer heard while preparing words for display. Rather than chase assumption. I've chosen to share the stage. In this scene. Chapter four. John shares a dance with his truest love. Knowing without exposing. Something was changing and he had no way of realizing if there would be another song to sing.

Scrambled Egg Shells Part Three

2013-11-01T10:28:00.000-07:00

Listen to the story on I Heart Radio As if we were in a bookstore along side a crowded holiday shopper's endless demands. Up front a man reads from the pages that grew out of him. In this chapter John and Tailor the Mender are walking through New York and the scent of a fresh bagel consumes their imagination causing John to giveaway his key that granted him permission to change people's lives.

Scrambled Egg Shells; Part Two

2013-10-28T09:51:00.000-07:00

Listen to the story on I Heart Radio In Chapter Two John takes a stroll through the busy streets of New York City. There was once a time when dodging the constantly busy minded inspired a reason to dance. The footsteps required to avoid. The swerving of his hips to get into then around. But this day. He bumps into a New Yorker on the phone.

Scrambled Egg Shells: Part One

2013-10-25T06:21:00.000-07:00

Peter Max once told me, "You have to release your art! It doesn't belong to you!" Julia Cameron elegantly preaches in The Artist Way the very lyrics of having no reason to be creatively selfish. With each passing day. I inch closer to the first year writing celebration of Scrambled Eggs. While attending the premiere of About Time last evening. The writer within kept smiling. The making of a book is a brilliant feeling. From single sentences to huge paragraphs. The art of studying the watchful eye of a modern reader to blending reasons of wanting to reinvent the wheel. But one thing is missing. You have no clue as to what I'm hearing in my head. Therefore. Like the writer I am. I shall take the essence of expression and stand in front of you. Just like I have a billion times inside book stores. And read. Part one is taken from Chapter One. Listen to it on I Heart Radio

Pictures Of A New Book: Page Forty Seven

2013-10-09T06:16:00.001-07:00

Julia Cameron calls it: Painting a room. Take your writing instrument and bring to life every corner. Give off the scent of so much description that no matter where you're reader's are living... they can see, feel, hear and smell the essence of expression. It's that technique that kept my eyes dipped in buckets of paint while walking through New York City. I refused to jump into impatient yellow cabs. I couldn't be hustled through the transit system. For me to grasp the invisible. I had to become part of it.

My latest book Scrambled Eggs sits on the benches of cluttered streets overrun by business minds and wandering dreams. 832 Broadway shook the nib almost off the instrument. Seconds before arriving. Nearly 11pm. I could've been watching the Presidential debate but found myself inside a comic book store instead. Had I known at the time that the universe was handing me a book to write.

I might have paid closer attention to the busy needs of Super Heroes and cartoon characters. Once within the thin pages of strips and cabinets of plastic figures. I realized the importance of mirrors. Finding my way to a corner. To watch late night New Yorker's. The essence of a dance fed the eyes of the storyteller's lyrics.

Picture Of A New Book Page Forty Six: Shattering Glass

2013-09-18T12:49:00.001-07:00

Today. I broke a rule. I promised myself to stay focused. To not stray away from. To become weak. To sell out to being what I've always been. A perfectionist. The writing of my new book. People think words fall from the sky. If that's the case. May I buy a case of buckets? Stay focused. My battle cry. Keep from having to revert back to new beginnings. It will be there when you are finished. But did I listen? I chose instead. To recognize. The guy I am. The writer inside. Wasn't within the same rhythm and tone. Shared those days. When words were spirits having flown. Gone! Gone! Gone! First the simple words. Gone! A sentence. I reconstructed a paragraph and got high. High off the challenge of getting to redesign. It took me thirty five years to publish the book that kept me in school. I kept changing ideas. Layouts were boring. I stumbled and fumbled. I no longer could see eye to page. So I elected to change. And change. And change. It's not good that I went back and reshaped the landscape of the first in chapters. Melodic might be my rhyme. But the timing is way off. I have until February 2014 to break this book free. Editing isn't free. The expense is common sense. I love what I rewrote! But how will I feel in sixty to one hundred days. I broke a rule. I didn't stay focused. I chose instead to bring a knife to the computer screen. Cutting loose what could've been a readers most favorite part. What do I know? Except the moment. It fell from the sky.

Writer's Reinvent Language

2013-09-12T11:40:00.001-07:00

I would love to see what the book authors, poets and music makers in Syria are setting free. Writer's fear nothing. Be it a jotting down. A mental expression or conversation. Storyteller's express because they weren't born to keep it in. How many writer's in Syria have been ordered into silence? Trying times multiply the minds ambition to put print to work in the world's eye. Writer's get creative. Making paths visible by developing the guts to cut through everyday language to make up another. Like Irish Limericks. Where are the writing instruments and pads of paper in Syria? You can't text there! It's being read by rule makers turning book authors, poets and music makers into rule breakers. Do the windows of the soul equal the stories being told? Who then is documenting the paragraphs so that other generations can learn from it without passing the fear for living forward? Writer's cannot go without speaking. Hidden. The path. So it be challenged. But human skin cannot hold in. Experience and survival. It has to be flowing freely somewhere. Is it being written then quickly ripped into shreds of nothingness? Put in the frames of homes then covered by photographs of a past that will never return again. Is it wrong to think? A writer's greatest gift is to guarantee a link. Between he. They and all who'll one day gather. To hear of the tale. The struggles versus victory. Starvation dulled by an inner core of motivation that moves the innocent toward beams of security. Writer's don't release to feel championed. Books may sell but it's a story we do tell. A masterpiece like that of a painting hung above a fireplace mantle. A passing thought from yesterday. Led into an area of nonexistent. Without book authors, poets and music makers. The sights we see would only be dreams.

Don't Text While Writing

2013-08-21T10:34:00.001-07:00

Remember when putting puzzles together were the hot American trend? Classic family time was spent searching for rounded chunks of blips and blobs that would mysteriously make their way into becoming a brilliant portrait. My family being of Montana mud and existence always chose forested scenes or bridges across roaring rivers. If Gene Simmons of KISS had been around ten years earlier there might have been some edgier pieces parts made available for growing teen boys. The lack of Rock in puzzles had to be the reason why I took up writing! What is a single word but a puzzle piece. When you put enough of them together the background lights up the imagination, "I'm almost there!" I still have 100,000 more pieces but wow this is so much better than yesterday!" Writer's tend to be perfectionists. That being said. A puzzle can instantly go silent if what's being painted onto the surface of a table doesn't make sense. As far back as the second grade Mrs. Keefe constantly reminded me, "Beginning, middle and end." Hard to digest is how the writing world has changed in the center of series of adventures. Tweets are abbreviated words. Face Book might connect to readers but what drives them to want to follow you to the next page? Radio and TV commercials are every reason to tune out. Books are digital and never in my life did I think there would come a time when having every page at my fingertips was the perfect way to digest what the author was attempting to sell. It's not just 100,000 puzzle pieces of one writer. Digital books make any number of authors available at any given moment. Just like Radio and TV...readers are tuning out. And there aren't any commercials!!!!Just a bunch of sentence that connect readers to everything. Oh we eventually get to it. After answering emails, thumbing through Amazon and blanking out trash advertisers attempting to make perfect your unwritten life. I spend a lot of time on college and broadcast campuses educating tomorrows communicators. Where are the published authors doing the same for writers? The world will always be ready for a new book. Getting it into the hands of an interested reader is the difficult challenge. The playing field for creative minds changes by the hour. How we maintain the level of upkeep required drains from the imagination everything once thought to be the protective shield from perfectionism. The reason why writer's don't offer their services to other thinker's...is because everybody is their own writer and nobody whats to be compared. Mark Twain couldn't survive in 2013. I believe Harry Potter would have a tough time as well. The 1990's were a different time. Shades of Gray has become popular because women finally believe that porno doesn't have to be pictures but rather images set free in the imagination. The writer's edge inside a world fed by a wealth of knowledge dulls the tip of the most brilliant sentence. And yet...we continue to write. Believer's in the passion to put pen to paper or fingertips to keyboard find themselves shying away from chasing a dream and relying more on answer the calling.

Writer's Fighting In Bathroom Mirrors

2013-08-16T10:26:00.001-07:00

Nobody is harder on the opposite side of a creative mind than the self paying the daily rent. Which is why I take the time to answer "The Doubter." Every question! Why if the industry has failed its performers do I spend so much time chasing radio dreams? Friends or my worst critics. Hate your new book Scrambled Eggs because of the style of writing chosen. Why can't I start over and become liked? How can you be so busy and have nothing to show for it? 1. Radio performers haven't failed the industry. Non-radio people banking on advertising dollars have tipped the stage upside down. True Broadcasters are turtles. We lay on our backs pretending to feel the self proclaimed Master's in control tickling our tummies. As long as they're footing the bill. I accept all change. Digital wouldn't be without there being a connection between deep pockets and a need to make money. It's the greatest time to be in Radio. Show me a decision maker that can do a show, produce commercials, sell advertising and attend community events while keeping a thumb print on the pulse of where music and performance is versus isn't. Radio works if you let it. 2. I went into writing Scrambled Eggs to answer a mission. The sentences and paragraphs are completely all my own. Delivered my own way. It's how I think. I study word formation. I listen to how normal people speak. I watch great engaging conversation completed inside thoughts shared. Why aren't newspapers and magazines writing this way? Why are books thick? And in return I'll get a billion answers. But none will satisfy the hunger to write...my way. I truly don't care if not one book is sold. I don't care. Nothing comes close to the incredible pleasure I'm getting in bringing these characters air. 3. Life isn't supposed to be a business. Life is about living. Learning to live is a subject that two people will never agree on. I'm extremely busy living life. I've been invited to the most fascinating places noted as common and find its spirit to be a truer blue than the sky. When your choice in life is to live. The journey begins. Accept the good with the great while dipping your toes in the bad and very ugly. Peace in my soul is rubbing noses with my sixteen year old Maltese named MJ. A rescue that was horribly treated for five years in a situation that should've claimed his life. To stare in his eyes is my Jazz. To take a writing instrument and write about it...is no different than Paul McCartney penning out Hey Jude. He got the world to listen. All I want to do is thank God for giving me the chance to live another day.