Welcome. Anonymous Author holds a mirror to the face of humanity, asking what it really means to be human,

and in doing so blurs the line between what is good and bad writing.

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Monday, March 19, 2012


...Before I was born, people did not know who I was.
My conception was a work of art. My father had died only an hour prior, but his spermatozoa had the presence of mind to continue his work. Abstract Expressionism maybe, like the 'white-writing' of Mark Tobey or the painterly application of Jackson Pollock. Hundreds of intricate strokes that helped describe my form. An asemic continuum if you will. (And you must!) 

My birth was similarly a creation of fine art. My Mother had been a blank canvas until I was writ large upon her, and sadly, after months of incubating a life's work, she died delivering her masterpiece. I was extracted from my amniotic sanctuary 6 weeks prematurely. An over-proofed yet somehow under-edited baby boy.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012


Work in progress of the cover for my yet to be published unauthorised autobiography, The Ghostwriter in the Machine.