“I try to tell the truth,” says Frankie Leone, a local writer.

I personally have a different approach; I like to play with the truth, distort and regurgitate it, that’s what I love about fiction writing but Frankie believes otherwise. He says: “The truth is really elusive, I think, and that’s what I try to find in my writing.”

I discovered a piece of fiction on FreeWilliamsburg last week, entitled “Ponce Funeral Home.” Intrigued by the title I clicked the link and was taken to a website with an online-book-look to it. After reading the four-page short story, I had to read more. The great thing about the Facebook-era is that I was able to find the author of this enigmatic piece of writing in five minutes, and also other works of his. One of those stories “Christ on Kent Avenue,” turns a trivial event into something big and alluring, which shows skills crucial to good writing. “[It shows] how you can turn someone, even a stranger into an idea or symbol.”  Frankie uses his own poetic justice, which can be a little shaky at times, but the raw emotions are evident, he places himself completely into his work. “I am the narrator of the stories; I don’t know how to write from other people’s perspectives. When I started seriously writing I wrote a lot about my experiences…I write about meaningful connections with other people, and more often than not, they tend to be with women.”

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It’s sad to say ‘bye to the neighbourhood that in my two months stay here—since I was introduced to a community so vibrant—I fell in love with. My first impressions were that of the creativity, the culture and “the hipsters.” That non-fat (what I mean by non-touristed) New York has been one of its best features for me; although I’ve learned that the tourists that do venture beyond First Ave on the L train are just disguised better than those who swarm Times Square. Not to say that there are many of them either; just a few. I expressed a similar vibe to London’s East End but stated there were subtle differences; I now know better.

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Caesar Pink’s novel “The Murder of the Holy King” evokes an explosion of emotions and feelings. It is the philosophical mutterings of an artistic soul. It describes the journey across America of a man, who sets off with the hopes of finding himself, but in which he ends up losing himself, in his own creative dynamism. This non-linear memoir makes you reminiscent of times not experienced.

“To be an artist is to be cursed,” sums up Pink’s mantra. His life experiences are poetic, insane and utterly New York; however, like many that call themselves artists, he basks in the creative and zealous down times, and focuses very little on his successes. Saying this, those down times where Pink found himself homeless, living in an old car did bring on new bouts of life. They gave him justification, almost, that what he was doing was meant to be. Mixed in with his biographical writing are spouts of ancient mythological musings, spiritual awakenings and facts about Eastern religions brought to the book in a Chuck Palahniuk way (author “Fight Club”) that those with susceptible eyes and minds should weary away from. Even though he states in the novel he does not want to thrust his ideas onto his readers, there’s an underlying insecurity to these words that make you believe he is looking for like-minded individuals to jump on his band wagon. Pink’s novel is also very Jack Kerouac-esque; an “On the Road” for our contemporary and confused times.

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