I am a fictitious writer and purveyor of fine podcasts, who uses social media for deep procrastination. I live with 2 lovely females and a bad conscience under Milk Wood.
I publish flash regularly at http://flawnt.tumblr.com/, longer pieces and serials at http://flawnt.WordPress.com. Fictionaut blog interview with me at http://bit.ly/FFbaresAll.
For me, the short form is a form of suffering. I use it mainly to gather my wits about me like unruly deformed children, who might, one day, grow up to be something different, or not. Still, since I joined the fnaut, I've enjoyed so many great stories here, and so much good feedback, it's marvelous and enormously gratifying. I've actually grown by two inches since I joined.
On Bloomsday 2010 I will cease social networking as Flawnt at large. I will not be notified of comments, wall posts or mails. If you want to contact me use my e-mail, please. Thanks for reading!
[Update 09/2010: Finnegan Flawnt was a pseudonym of Marcus Speh, who's also on Fictionaut: http://bit.ly/RvhToh.]
I write for the bum on a bike with its missing spokes and the saddle of leather half eaten by rats. I write for the woman, who bends the sun to her will behind her glasses. I write for the people in power, who don't know half of the words for poverty. I write for the children, who don't dare come home with reports red from their teacher's nib. I write for the humble bumble bee flying clumsily from flower to flower. I write for the truck drivers taking their love for the road to the streets. I write for the barefoot men fixing things up for a woman's smile. I write for the musician shaking and baking scores till golden. I write for the gurus when they tumble down from their lofty location. I write for the bricks bellowing verses at the heart of a house. I write for the deaf, who hear from the mute, who speak to the blind, who see for the lame, who run at the flicker of a moth. I write for the soldiers in battle drawn by adventure, the go-getter and the meek, the lion and the lamb, all in drag and ready to die.
I write for all of them before sunrise with a quill made of dandelions, and during the day wearing glittering gloves, and at sundown dancing like a dirty dog around a phrase-filled bucket. I write when I don't write and I don't write when I write. I'm a tunnel through gridlock and a bridge under water.
I sprawl, I spill and I splutter and when I stop writing the giant wheel comes to a halt for the tiniest time. Then I throw my summersault pen at you and you must continue my story before the bell chimes, before the chalice of God hits the cobble stone floor of my marigold mansion.
Favorite authors: Kurt Vonnegut, Gertrude Stein, Robert Musil, Dylan Thomas, Jorge Lluis Borges, Julio Cortazar, Flann O'Brian, Arthur Conan Doyle, Ursula Le Guin, Carol Emshwiller, David Lodge, Alfred Andersch, Octavia Butler, Hilary Mantel, Charles Bukowski, John Gardner, Mark Twain, Michael Chabon, Vladimir Nabokov, Fjodor Dostoewsky, Leo Tolstoy, James Joyce, Gustave Flaubert, Theodor Fontane, Thomas Pynchon.
