bio

Kevin John Jekyll

Hi I'm Kevin, I live in Christchurch, New Zealand - welcome to my world. This site used to be littered with fancy backgrounds and all sorts of stuff, but I decided this was really about my writing - not how inventful I could get with html. I couldn't make myself alter the feeling of the front page though. I mostly post my poetry using a few alias names - so don't expect to find Kev' making a name for himself, other than here. Anyway, by the titles and content of my works, it shouldn't take a detective to figure out who I am on the net'. I do enjoy conversing with new people, and finding out about them - and myself, so feel free to drop me a line, I'm actually a friendly creature - most of the time.

This site will contain much more than just writing in the near future, I'm in to all sorts of interests, so I thought I might write a bit about them too. Writing is a big part of my life (and yours?). Life and time - two identities and yet the same. I began writing poetry when I was at school, and that is where my love of poetry and writing started - lucky me. Poetry started as merely something I had always wanted to do, as did my short stories, and I got great feedback. My English teacher suggested I become a journalist, and to be a technician/engineer was a waste of my talent. I didn't see it that way and went off and did what I wanted, no matter the good advice. I wasn’t interested in fact then, I wanted to write about the subjects I had read of in school, in the library, and what I'd seen on TV.

I made a number of unsuccessful attempts to write my own epic story for a few years, so take heart from that. Writing is something we all can do, and we do this in; correspondence, email, icq, aol, chat, but mostly it is talking about what we know, and is a brief reminder of what we are. Writing specifically is (I have been told) 15 hours a week, editing or creating, and a compulsion to keep on writing. I fit into the category of being a writer, not having being paid or published saddens me, but not as much as not being recognised as a writer. Writing full time takes more than a little dedication, or is that abstraction from life and our involvement in it - still to me, writing has always been worth the time spent.

My source of income, is a sorry life, as an unappreciated comm's engineer. Being a wanna be author has required me to give up a lot of my free time. Some would say that I have been wasting my time - or working two jobs; one during the day, another at night. I doubt anyone could ever analyse their life and say they had never made a mistake or two along the way, I've made many more than that.

So how did the novel thing start? Well from the beginning it was poetry, my poems became pros of increasing length, I liked and added to them, then suddenly I was writing this really long poem titled, "A Little Law" it just went on and on. At the length of a hundred pages, I realised my dream was actually happening, a novel was born, and well, I’ve never really turned back. Contrary to all good work practices, I do not plan any of my books, I write them in my head, they are basically "Living works in progress." I tried planning a novel once, spending hours on it, but when it came to the writing part, I completely ignored the outline and wrote something different, and superior? I think that any anomalies, that might arise because of this unusual method of writing, can be excused as either artistic inspiration, or rectified in subsequent edits.

To date I have written one book of poetry and seven + novels of varying lengths. The disaster of my dead laptop changed more than a few things, as I lost for the first time some of my hard won words. Initially the earlier books were in first person, but readers suggested they might be better in "Eye of God", so I have attempted to convert all my stories. I do agree, they read for this edit, probably only because of the rewrite, who can say for sure?

I never gave serious thought to getting a book published, and am now just beginning to seek advice on how to do so. Alas I am not about to give away any of my ownership on my work, as has been suggested in the past. Spend thousands on hours on anything, and see how protective you would feel about your baby/s. No matter the outcome, I will never stop writing, and never stop seeking out those who are in the same situation as me - optimistic writers, ah, masochists?

For years I didn't tell or show anyone my writing, I was what some might call a self writer, of course such actions got me nowhere. The internet changed all that! If you don't tell people what you're doing, well they won't take an interest. My writing sort of started off as a quest, now it is just a part of me, I just do what I do, and hope one day, I'll finally find what I am seeking to find...

I've returned to my roots, as some may say, by writing more poetry, I'm still toying with that truly great novel - my private dream for the time being. So again I may have some new thoughts, and being more mature and experienced, it might just entertain a few people.

I'd like to thank you for coming here, for making it this far, it would be encouraging to hear from any of you, the thousands of hours I have spent in front of so many computers more worth while.

And from the bottom of my heart, I'd especially like to thank those of you who keep coming back, who posted a word or two in my guest book, you inspire me to keep on writing. It reminds me that none of us are really alone, as long as there is some one who takes an interest in us and what we do.

Good luck in your endeavours, whatever they may be - and remember, nothing is truly impossible if you put your mind to it.

Yours in time - Kev'

My best wishes to you all!

Done

In a story every word should be universal,
each concept identifiable as that personal,
ideal cheap sentiment and too easy rhyme
make for quick reading soon forgotten - nevermind.

Yet this art has been with man from the start
there is no truly unique experience of the heart
just different ways of expressing the journey in evolution
fallen from the tree the forest in us is still very much alive
our civilisation mere veneer as humane we strive.

Often we forget ourselves; to steal, kill and rape
pray for forgiveness and hide under Superman's cape,
primitive war rages through and around our dust
as angels watch over the universe in blessed trust
that some day to the heavens souls will seeking fly
the answer to the eternal question, "oh God - why?"

And the wages of sin are paid with great dividend,
gold weighs heavy on morals worn paper thin,
time treats all equally with even steady hand
as man changes everything and nothing in this land,
pure youthful dreams and desires blur after a while
but never disappear as we tread our golden mile.

Every journey has a beginning and an end
each scene on these steps should contain a friend,
alas heaven on earth is for story book tales
even the strongest love within us can fail
still that does not diminish the worth of the fact
as is said, "We will be remembered for our acts..."

So the days pass with ease like dust in the breeze
let ours settle with style and meaning on life's knee
knowing we all have the chance of a life but one
why not live it well every moment under the sun,
for mortals exist within their own acquaintance
with the realisation we can all make a difference...

Family Crest: "Forget Me Not!"

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