Finding the strength to write is like gripping sand.

Dragging myself out of the brine of complacency, I have lied to myself as to where I need to be, and what I need to do. The mind is a terrible thing. Not to waste, but a terrible thing. I have imagined and seen things in my mind’s eye that have irrevocably changed how I think. By a little bit. Every day. Completely changing, over and over again. That’s how all minds work. Not just mine. I’m not unique there.

I’ve been writing again. Who knows why the flow slows? Who knows why my stomach drops when I think about slamming down a few more words outta a keyboard? I don’t know. And I’ve spent too much time in my life trying to figure out a final reason, a final truth. It might as well be a holy grail for Christsake. Unattainable. Impossible. Unreachable. The mind is too complex for me, or for anyone else to fully understand.

I’ve discovered that forcing myself to write just a little bit begins the flow again. I haven’t been able to write for hours in a long time, but I can feel the inspiration coming. It happens like this every time I write a novel; I reach a point where I’m goin’ through the motions, and then I come back full force. I can feel it. It’s there. As for drawing and art, there isn’t much left now. Concept art for Blestemul I mean. In case you couldn’t tell, I’ve been clutching and clawing for exposure through posting pictures. Simply because the content of my blog has been shit lately.

Time to get back on track. I’ve written over 200 pages in this new book, and I’ll I’ve been doing is pissin’ and moanin’ about how hard writing is when I should be doing the thing I created this fuckin’ blog for. So here we go.

As of right now, I’ve been trying to develop character connections through difficult experiences and trust loops. Along with this, I’ve been changing my main character, twisting him into something the reader might not like. But I always have a plan when it comes to something like this. I won’t disappoint.

As for the beginning of the novel, it starts out simply enough. An alcoholic, washed-up “soldier” eeks out a living on some godforsaken shit hill town when an opportunity to redeem himself in the eyes of himself presents itself. Alistar, the main character, has given himself up to the demon, Blestemul, his symbiotic demon-pistol. Stuck inside his head, the demon goads, supports, and torments him as he strikes back at those who have held him down, and are continuing to destroy other peoples’ lives in plain view, under the guise of innocent righteousness.

I also tried to break stereotypes in this book. I created races that seem more bestial, but I developed them like any other “human” character. They have personalities, they wear clothes, cologne, they have opinions, jokes, likes, dislikes, loss and gain. It shows that a good person is a good person, and one can transcend any ignorance with a little effort.

Right now, one friend of Alistar’s, Kone, is missing. One recovered after a traumatic event that she (Jala) shared with AListar, and Spek is now looking for Kone inside of a primordial and very dangerous swamp. They are close to reaching the location of their main objective, and then the book should take off with aggression and grace.

That’s where I am. Now you know, and now I’ve said it. Wrote it. And I feel better. I’m giving you the writing you deserve to read. Am I god’s gift to the written word? NO. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to try. Thanks for reading and sticking with my fury. I won’t disappoint you. I promise.