Gregg is a singer-songwriter and guitarist from Western Pennsylvania. Starting out in garage punk bands and later moving to acoustic Americana-infused music, he hasn't "mellowed" or become sophisticated over the past 20 years. His songs and style are still simple, sometimes rough-edged, and straight-ahead. His latest gigs have been as part of The True NYers, an acoustic duo.
Gregg's songs have been featured on local commercial radio and he has played at many top performance venues in the Pittsburgh area. Gregg likes artists like these a whole lot: Elmore James, The Ramones, Patsy Cline, Richard Thompson, Robert Pete Williams, The Sex Pistols, Woody Guthrie, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Howlin' Wolf, Gillian Welch, Elvis, Doc Watson, Jonathan Richman, Ali Farka Toure. He just recently finished a new 15-song CD, which includes several tunes featured here, and expects to release it later in 2015.
Beginning writers often write description without stopping to think, when they should take their time and let the exposition flow.
Instead of simply writing, “Tim walked toward the door, then stopped. He freaked out at what he saw. He trembled. Then he ran.” …
One could write, “Tim stopped on a dime, his heart climbing into his throat. He trembled as much as a palm tree in a hurricane, and his heart crashed against his ribcage as if wanting out. His soulmate had been reduced to fodder for the worms; he’d never realized how much blood could come out of a human body. To say rivulets of crimson lifejuice flowed across his carpet would’ve been an understatement. Copper-scented blood was everywhere: on the walls, on the ceiling, and it soaked the carpeting through and through. Tim opened his mouth, but only a silent scream, strangled in horror, came out. Instead of rushing the sinewy beast—tall as the ceiling, covered roundabout with hair, possessing snaggle teeth like knives, claws, and veiny, muscle-clad flesh—Tim found himself sprinting toward the backdoor. He’d never been confronted by a monster, and what was left of his sanity now drained from him.”
Obviously, the difference is staggering.
But how many writers stop and think before pouring out their ideas, which, in and of themselves, may be right on the money?
I prefer to take it a step further. Before writing a rough draft, I draw pictures of the characters. It makes my left brain work with my right brain, forging the tale I’d previously thought myself devoid of conjuring.