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Now, There Is A Writer

There is a writer.
Norwegian. He is called
"The New Proust."
He speaks of his life in
naked unwavering detail.
He uses names, dates, places
in fact form. It is truth.
His own.

He plays the role of a bare-knuckled
heavy-weight prize fighter
engaged in the battle for personal
clarity and understanding.
His stakes are high.
He has been bloodied. His wounds
are raw. He is not ashamed of
his scars. He discusses all
with a lightning strike
of bold candor.

Critics and readers describe his
novels as addictive.
Addictive in the way a masochist
craves humiliation.
Addictive in the way a junkie
needs a fix.
Addictive in the way a bulimic
can't swallow.
Addictive in how the modern world
is convinced it won't survive without
a cellphone.
Addictive in the way that my Father
couldn't live with his family
without a drink.
Addictive in the way my Mother
could not let a day go by
without a comment about my weight.
Addictive in how our government
has accustomed itself to the propagation of
diversion, cover-up and lies.

Shy this Norwegian is.
Driven but unreluctant about his admitted
fame-sucking ways.
Fearless in his revelations.
Baffled at times by the attentions, but
yet feels compelled to "google himself 20 times per day."

Brave. Brash. Brilliant.
His truth has been his release.
Some say his revenge. Its been a
wallop, a dollop of I am
telling you so. His horror, his experiences
are now our treasures.

With the adulation of multitudes
unrivaled since the advent of Harry Potter,
there are few left to convince.

So it seems...
With his struggle, and his warts and pain
he has become a

Melissa A Howells/Meloo/site Tilt-a-World
All ideas, stories, poetry are legal property of this writer.
Copyright July 14, 2014

written from admiration

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Now, There Is A Writer