Brian Kenneth Swain

When I stand before the glass, I see me standing before the glass. When I gaze down at the page, there I am, looking back up at me. Both reflections, of me, and yet… the image on the page, drawn with a pallet of just twenty-six monochrome characters, reveals so much more than that full-color rendition in the mirror, not only more detail, but more enduring as well. For when I step from before the mirror, I am gone. But that me upon the page is a high resolution snapshot of me in that moment, one that will never fade. It is forever, no matter where I go, no matter who I ...

How do you write a poem? she asked. It’s like going broke, I replied— gradually, them suddenly.* Which makes sense, almost, at least in certain stories. Maybe not so much in poems. I have had some that came fast, almost violently so. And others labored over like childbirth. But only rarely is there a spate of hard work, crushing effort, and then a sudden rush, like an old toothpaste tube that’s stopped up so that you push hard, only to have it all come out at once. Words splattered upon the page, and no way in hell they’re going back in the tube. *Apologies to Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also ...

The cold, bitter truth is that most writers are awful marketers. I’ve yet to meet an author who enjoyed or was any good at self-promotion and publicity. Not only are we terrible at selling to begin with, but we also tend to resent the time that we’re obliged to spend doing it because it cuts into time that we could be writing. And yet, if we subscribe to the belief that authors strive primarily—either publicly or at least in secret—for readers, then we’re forced to accept the uncomfortable fact that we’re all obliged to expend at least some measure of effort to promote and sell our work. There were something like 900,000 new books published in the U.S. last year, about two thirds of which were self published, and about 99% ...

It always happens the same way. He stands tentatively before the marble fireplace and gazes into the painting for a few moments, wondering who created it (no signature) and when they did so (at least a hundred fifty years ago, that much is certain). Surprisingly, he long ago ceased wondering how the miracle itself works. No point speculating, he supposes. It’s a wondrous, impossible bit of sorcery, or perhaps arcane physics, in either event a thing he can never hope to understand. But he’s made the journey now several times, and it’s always the same, regardless of direction. The discovery was a complete fluke, or at least he imagines that it was. He had stood in this very spot, alone in the room, reached out his right hand, and ...

The late, absurdly talented essayist David Foster Wallace, in an interview with Charlie Rose, once noted the painful dichotomy of being a writer; how on the one hand you’re this recluse who sits in an office or garret for days at a time, eschewing all human contact, striving to complete a piece of work; but on the other hand you repeatedly put your writing out there into the public sphere for human consumption and evaluation. It’s a poignant observation, and one that gets to the heart of what writers want. In fairness, I can, of course, only comment on what this particular writer wants, though in so doing, I am prepared to also make a bold leap and assert that it’s what every writer wants; put quite simply—readers. I cannot believe ...

I back out from the garage, and there he sits, bigger’n life, perched in the middle of my windshield. Six legs, carapace the color of molasses glistening in the evening sunset. But, rather than brush him off, send him on his way, I opt for blood sport.   At five miles per hour he is unimpressed, walks mockingly from one side to the other, a sprinter stretching out before the gun fires.   At ten it’s still just a joke. He lifts two legs at me, defiant, stares through the glass. Is that all you’ve got?   But at twenty, suddenly the game is afoot. All six legs, now firmly planted, bow in a bit, lowering his body into the narrow safety of the boundary layer.   At thirty he hangs on with verve, though to what is a ...

I was born at a very young age, so I cannot be expected to remember all the details. I recall a loud noise, though that may have just been me, come to think of it. There were several quite rough hands. And then an acrid taste, which I didn’t much like, but went for anyway, no menu being offered. I remember glass and lots and lots of staring eyes.   After that, everything is a bit of a blur   until ...

There came at last a day when, exhausted and utterly fed up, Sisyphus just walked up the hill, clear to the top without stopping. Once there, he took a seat, wiped his brow, gazed about at the view, then looked back down the hill at the rock lying there. And, grinning smugly, he said out loud, Yes, this is better. This is much ...

Click play below to listen to the Sistina Audio book sample, narrated by Ryan Metzger. http://www.briankennethswain.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/Sistina-Prologue.mp3 Click below to listen to the January 6th, 2015 interview on the Artist First Worldwide Radio Network, hosted by Tony Kay. http://www.briankennethswain.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2015/02/Authors-First_2015-01-06_Brian_Swain_128k.mp3 Click below to listen to the January 26th, 2015 MyNDTALK interview, hosted by Dr. Pamela Brewer. http://www.briankennethswain.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2015/01/wpfw_150126_150000myndalkfri.mp3 Click below to listen to the February 3rd, 2015 interview on Nuestra Palabra, KPFT/90/1 FM, hosted by Tony Diaz and Liana ...

Prologue And they found the stone rolled away from the sepulcher. And they entered in, and found not the body of the Lord Jesus.Luke 24:2-3 April 3 – 33 CE Nicodemus looks away as Joseph grunts and puts all his weight into the bar, drawing the heavy iron nail from out of the black oak, freeing Jesus’ limp left hand from the cross. The task is excruciating, physically and emotionally, and there is no respite from the unforgiving afternoon heat. They are two men, observed only by a pair of centurions, but working alone, and with the crudest of tools: a heavy winch to lift the massive cross from its support hole and lower it gently to the ground, and a stout iron bar to grip the heads of the six-inch-long spikes and draw them ...