Category Archives: Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue

General commentary, not related with anything in particular.

Kone 2.0 Concept Art and…Other Things

by in The Chronicles of Urth: Blestemul, Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

Life is one long stretch of time where shit happens that is good and bad.

True is this for real people and fictional characters. This blog entry will focus on Kone, one of Alistar’s friends in Blestemul, the new book I’m writing. Kone is an Ironsoul, which means that he has mechanical parts mixed in with organic ones. After a particularly nasty bit of business in the plot line, Kone had most of his living body destroyed, meaning now he is almost completely mechanical. His brain did not survive; rather they stuffed “Kone” into an extremely sophisticated CPU, where he is who he is, but now he can process like a computer. Traumatic to say the least, but not without its benefits. Kone now is a sophisticated war machine, meaning that he has all sorts of military-grade treasures and goodies (I won’t reveal why). Navigation systems, enhanced tracking and sensory awareness, strength, reflex, and agility augmentation, hacking, electronic disruption, and a whole laundry godman list of other terrific shit. Take a look at some (shitty) concept art that I drew for Kone 2.0:

KoneConceptArt2_TCoUBlestemul

The skin on him cannot even fit over the mechanical parts, making it look unnatural. The face plate is synthetic, and does nothing to add humanity. I can’t say why I did this to Kone. And not in a “reveal the ending” kind of way, I truly don’t know why I did this to him. Perhaps I deemed him uninteresting, and needing a new angle. Maybe I was getting lazy, and needed an ace in the hole for later chapters. Maybe I just felt…cruel that day. Or maybe it was a combination of something else entirely. I don’t know.

Shit happens. We are all aware of this, whether it is fictional or real, everything happens to everybody for a specific reason. These reasons are either identifiable immediately, or take some time to reveal themselves. Sometimes, I can feel the world plotting. And I don’t mean people, I can feel the noose of life tighten around my fragile, mortal neck and then loosen when I least expect it. I felt the world plotting against me all my life, but I didn’t really understand what it meant until recently. Yesterday, my car got smashed into by an old man with shitty eyes and a big car. I could feel the incident looming long before it occurred.

Sometimes, I feel as though it maybe is death keeping my ego in check. God, devil, demon, angel, who knows. I worry. I worry because I this time of year always means trouble for me. And as the demons travel in threes, I worry. I worry because maybe this isn’t the end. I worry because maybe there’s more darkness to come.

I will always be on the edge of the abyss, staring into the black. It’s where I belong. Partially (mostly) by choice. And maybe sometimes this bleeds into my writing. Maybe all this shit means something, and I am just a lil’ ol’ pawn in a Chess game so grand and convoluted that I’ll never be anything more than just a basic piece. Maybe I’m full of shit.

Feelings of doom, bad omen, signs. They are everywhere. They can be heeded, ignored, embraced, destroyed, hidden, a whole manner of things. The feelings I get, the thoughts I have, the dream I dream. They are all connected somehow in a massive web that connects me to life, and all the forces that drawn upon it.

Or maybe I’m just a Pawn aspiring to be a King.

I’ll Write when I Godamn Please

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged | 1 Comment

Havent’ written in a while. The last post I did was shit because my heart wasn’t in it.

As of right now, things are hard. Excuses and pity are not for me, though. But it can still get you down. Writing anything is work. It’s work that you can enjoy, or that you can loathe. I think that it is both sometimes. Completely and totally, actually. Every page can be a struggle sometimes. Every little fucking punctuation mark can feel like a fuckin’ knife being driven into your fucking HEAD like it does right now. I don’t wanna write right now. I don’t fucking care right now.

But here we are.

I figured that I could use all my hate, anger, frustration and self loathing to produce an honest piece of writing. Feels honest. How well crafted, I’m not sure. As for Blestemul, work has come to a halt for now. After 200 pages, I don’t feel like writing anything more about that book for a little while. It’s frustration that stops me. Mostly how I don’t want to write, I want to sit and stare off into oblivion.

But I do write. And I think about my characters. What about you? Hmm? What do you think? Of course none of you assholes will reply, but let’s pretend for 10 seconds that you actually give a shit. Do you keep your characters in your head after you’ve written them? Do you sometimes feel resentment towards them for exsistence? Do you feel resentment towards your audience for the feeling you inflict upon yourself (guilt) when you haven’t been writing. I do. I blame everthing but myself, but that’s what this entry is for, honestly.

Fuck.

Stepping Forward in Shit

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Life can be a real sour cunt, you know that?

I’ll warn you now. I’m gonna bitch and moan and have meaningful insight all in this motherfucker, so if you’re bored already, stop reading. Still here? What’s wrong with you? Anyway, the world will shit on you, disappoint you, wear you out and fuck you up. And it’s not just big things. You’d be surprised how often a little bump in the path can totally throw someone off the deep edge. Definitely a “straw that broke the camel’s back” situation. These past few weeks have been very tough for many people. Saying that, these last few decades have been very rough for some people. Many people, so as much as I want to bitch and moan about how annoying my life can be, I don’t. I don’t because there are others out there that would love to have my life.

Am I grateful? Sometimes. Sometimes I just want to smash anyone that looks at me cockeyed. Other times, I want to set myself ablaze and stand unflinching in a shopping mall, never screaming as people watch in horror as I amble towards them. Sometimes I want to be feared. Hated. Respected. Powerful. I feel my fists clench, my jaw tighten, and my patience wear thin, and a familiar burning resentment towards others that I envy boils up from my core, spills over, and all I want to do is shit all over the world and watch it burn down with me.

Looking for a positive turnaround paragraph? Nope. Not here. I guess you could say that this is a more…jaded and cynical part of my life, or more accurately, week. Usually edged with sarcasm to fake my own intelligence, but let’s just say what this shit boils down to. Jealousy. I am jealous. Competitive. I always have been. I don’t mind if my wife talks to other men. Kisses them, hugs them, fuck even flirts with them. Because I trust her. But every drop of testosterone I own in this haggard carcass surges right from my balls and into my brain when I see someone else trying to make a move on her. I am jealous of others that have more than me, have less than me (by choice), are smarter than me, stronger than me, all sorts of stupid mortal-based petty bullshit that now as I write, feels like angsty emo horseshit. Perhaps I need to save me from myself while I cut myself to feel because I’ve been asleep so long that I need someone to save me.

Or perhaps this is just a rough patch, and I need to get over myself and be happy for what I have, and what I can create. Anger and frustration are a part of life, and I certainly don’t help my situation with personality. I hide behind a wall of sarcasm and faux intelligence to hide what I am: Jealous, angry, and resentful. Secretive and obsessive. Hateful. Intense. And at times? Ignorant.

Do I want pity? Fuck no. What do I want? Fuck if I know. Or no. Don’t care. Most of the time. Sometimes?

Making Indie Publishing and Social Media Work together

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue | Leave a comment

You NEED social media. Period.

Curt Matthews's avatarGone Publishing

I have been arguing in this space that successful indie publishing is largely a question of understanding and working a niche or niches. If that is truly the case, all of us in the indie book business need to be looking hard at the question of how to use social media to promote our titles. The internet is a terrific place to find and exploit niches; and social marketing looks to be fairly easy, relatively cheap, and, if cleverly executed, astonishingly effective. Every day we consume packets of digital information—video clips, sound bites, images, memes, news items, even books—that have “gone viral” on the internet.

If only it were that simple. Here is a list of concerns to consider when exploring the complicated world of social media as it relates to indie publishing:

The number of blogs, Facebook pages, Pinterest boards–to say nothing of twitter profile and tweets—continues to expand…

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Twisted Emotions Change Books

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , , , , , | 4 Comments

These last few weeks have been…trying. I make no apologizes for the things I’ve neglected. Including myself and this blog, my mind has been elsewhere. Sandy shoved a fist in many people’s holes last week, and fortunately, all she did to me and my wife was some light BDSM. Needless to say, I’ve been elsewhere.

I have been writing though. But I’ve noticed something more and more as I progress in life and work on books and other pieces. My emotions and state of mind drastically alter what happens in my books, and what I’m willing to do to the reader and/or characters. Maybe I’m just having a little dick power trip, maybe I’m an artist, I don’t fuckin’ care/know. All I know is I want to write more when I’m in the shit, and what I write gets affected.

Violence and cruelty show up more in my work. I also notice an inability to write good dialogue, and a nagging itch to get to the next action sequence, or fight. Good moods produce good dialogue and shitty storytelling sometimes. Bad moods cut straight to the chase. I am a man of little patience and low self worth, so maybe it’s my own pathetic way of bullying a situation into something I can dominate and have control over. Hell, as long as what I write is good, who cares?

That’s not for me to judge. Is it?

Often I wonder what “famous” books would have turned out like if the author was a different person, or pissed off when writing a certain chapter. Often I wonder if book would have been better, or worse. Often I wonder…too often. What does your storytelling tell you?

 

Dark Dreams

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue | Leave a comment

I dreamed of it again.

Every once and awhile, I am reminded of the swirling darkness and the pool of souls we float in call the physical plane. I’ll see it, an outside being, an interloper. In my dreams, I can feel the thing staring right through me, a judgement. Upon waking, I can feel those eyes still on me, and I have difficulty determining where I am in dream, or where I am awake. Am I awake? Now, I am. But many hours ago I wasn’t so sure.
Night blurred together into morning. I could feel it standing in my room still, I know its there, and I know that it’ll be waiting for me when I return home. What is this thing? A reminder that humans are little sacks of bloated meat- living, fucking, farting, and dying.

I can barely recall what it looked like. It’s appeared to me before, you know. It took the form of an ebony man, emaciated with cruel eyes. I could feel the malice, I could feel a terrifying awe at the yawning abyss that I was staring into. I can feel it when I sleep, I can feel it watching me. Gripping my dream now, clutching at fast flowing sand. I can’t remember. I can’t remember the form it took last night, but I can feel what it was, and my mind fills in the rest with a form I can comprehend.

I keep coming back to the ebony man. Stern and unyielding. I have had other dreams, too. Ones of death and corruption. Blood. I would go back to the darkest of times in my life in these dreams, and I would be front and center when people would die. Ever feel pain in a dream? I do all the time. Pain that actually reflects to the injury I receive in the dream.

I dreamed of men and women throwing themselves upon giant saw blades in a lonely logging forest when the season of suicide was ripe. I could feel their pain as they died. I saw myself as one of them, watching myself scream out towards them to stop, but it was too late before i could change my mind’s mind. I would be shredded by the circular saw blades, the frustration of not being able to out dodge them and the pain of being sliced to shreds.

I felt pain last night as well. I don’t remember what it was from, but I knew that IT had something to do with it. I am a Shaman. I am immature, and impure. I believe it may be the path I must walk, and I fear for the corruption I have allowed into myself. I have always heard of Shaman being mental warriors, strong of will and wise. Pure, untouched, exuding wisdom. I believe that I am a twisted Shaman, corrupted by my own hate and anger, my fetishes. Masturbation, copulation, over-indulgence, intoxicants, lies, anger, anger, anger.

My still waters are deep and dark. I am not evil. I am not a bad person. I am not a bad ass. What I am is corrupted. I believe that this corruption allows me to exist in a place where I have a unique position where I can out flank others on the perspectives of humanity, life, and death. I will never be a villain, but it is ignorant of me to think that my struggles haven’t changed me.

I am corrupted. Tainted.

Something, I fear, that I will have to learn to accept. It visits me more than I’d like. I know it’s there. I know it. But there is nothing I can do against it. Perhaps because I don’t want to. This corruption I allowed into myself might have allowed other things to tag along with it.

I can feel its malice. And sometimes, I can understand it. I can understand the ways of a good man, and I can understand the ways of a bad man. I am selfish. I also wish this was a short story, or a creative narrative. But it’s not. No, it is not.

Prologue & Chapter 1 (Formal Edit 1) – ReBlogged

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue | 1 Comment

A terrific piece from a unique writer. He writes like a shaman’s lesson.

georgefloreswrite's avatargeorgefloreswrite

PROLOGUE (Formal Edit 1)

Without apotheosis, immortality is worthless. People imagine they would love eternity on earth, ignoring the certainty of tedium and loneliness. The woman whose looks are fading desires an immortal lover to make her like him. The young, who know youth is better than old age, crave immortal transformation. If they look into their hearts, however, they will find that the wish is more about lording it over others. People will kill to receive immortality, but they will butcher for power.

Immortality is not a gift; though, it is an attainment. No one can steal it or sell it; all they can do with it is to teach it to others. No easy methods exist to prolong life. Fifteen years of intensive training were necessary for me to understand how it was possible and more to learn how to do it; it is an art, a Toltec…

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Destiny

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Whoo! I feel much better.

I am still wrestling with my demons, but for once, I’m starting to feel like I can actually win. I am writing again, and in my heart, I’m just not ready to pull Geneslave’s trigger. It’s not a fear of rejection, it’s not dejection, it’s just…I’m not ready. I should be. And I push myself to be, but sometimes, I just can’t do it. Laziness? The process is confusing to get it ready, but I must do it. Before this month is out, it will be done. I must also remember that I’m not the only one that this blog affects. I am under NO delusions that my words are read by MILLIONS, but I am sure that by writing and helping myself out, I can help other people out too. Even if I help one person, help them write and publish, I’ll feel some satisfaction.

That sounds so fuckin’ cliche and caked with cheap, processed word cheese.

What the fuck ever, I meant it. Any-the fuck-way, I’m done moping and whining and clutching my own dick like a fuckin’ stuffed animal. I’m writing in Blestemul again, and the words are starting to flow more evenly now thank Christ. I feel more and more comfortable with pushing Geneslave forward, too. I just gotta sit down, and start the process one day. But when I think about it, my gut drops and my heart shoots a gout of frost through my veins. THIS is irony, ladies and gentlemen, straight outta the Gift of the fuckin’ Magi by the Henry.

I start a site that cuts through all the bullshit of the publishing industry, and I wind up standing in my own way to get published. Well. At least I’m recognizing it and wanting to correct it. I worked too hard to Geneslave for it not to be shared. And it’s not just my work that I’m talking about. YOU have worked too hard on your own projects to let them sit and fester. Push forward. Don’t let yourself stand in your way like I am. And if you’re where I am at right now, I’ll be there for you, this blog will be there for you, everyone that reads it will be there for you, too. And at the risk of sounding mushy but fuck it, I have to remember that all these things are there for me, too.

Fuck you contentment. You’re the bane of personal development.

Anger, Shame, and Pain

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

Problems lately.

An excuse. A pathetic one nonetheless. Pain and shame are probably the two greatest motivating factors in my life, and I have had to deal with this up close and personally many times. I’ve been struggling with my writing for some time now. More than writer’s block, it is a will to fail that is pushing me down. I talk a LOT of shit on publishing companies, editors, agents, printers, everyone in the literary industry. But my biggest obstacle is, and always will be, myself.

I don’t want to complete my book.

I want to sit and look at it, disgusted at my own inability to complete and move forward. I get engrossed in side projects, blame my life outside of my book, fuckin’ name it. I want to rest on soiled laurels reeking of the past and my incredible ignorance. No matter who may fuck around with you in your life, you’ll always be standing in your own way. Always. You will find things out about yourself, you will change, you will die, you will be born, you will wish for death, pray for slaughter, everything. Meat is weak, will is strength.

—Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength Meat is weak, will is strength—

SAY IT. Repeat it in your head over and over, like a terrible mantra, a hideous, bloody mantra that drives itself deeper into your fucking brain until all that you are is infected and taken over by your mind. You body cannot exist without your mind, your soul, your will. Your soul can. Meat is weak.

I’ve been focusing too much on the fuckin’ meat. We’re all just shuffling bags of greasy beef, trying to live our meager lives. Meager, untilWE change them. I’ve had several rude awakenings in the last few weeks, and they’re all burning on my mind like a clothes iron, just waitin’ to come out the other side. I am ashamed of my own weakness and vulnerability. This brings anger, and finally, pain. I am furious with myself right now. I hate what I have started to let myself become, and now I’m on the road to change. My will is my power, and I am not allowing the meat to take over and make me weak.

Beat your body. Beat it up. Make it beg for you to stop, and then tell your mind to keep on going. You rlungs will burn, your muscles will cramp, your bones will crack, your eyes will rupture, your brain will liquefy, your blood with turn into thick ash and YOUR WILL IS ALL YOU WILL EVER HAVE. I WILL NOT LET MY MEAT PREVENT ME FROM WRITING MY BOOK. PUBLISHING. SELLING.

FEED. YOUR. WILL.

Your meat is already dead.

 

Emotions Used in Writing

by in Thoughts with a Sharp Tongue and tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

What emotion do you like to feel the most?

Most would generally believe that happiness is the default emotion that we all strive for. But, is that entirely true? Is happiness really a generic label we can adhere to the very complex range of emotions we call humanity? Nope.

All of us feel a wide spectrum of emotions that help us to define our world and the occurences within it. They help us like our senses help us. They provide a whole host of acceptable actions, reactions, decisions, and so forth. Something so abstract shouldn’t be quantified by one word. Happy. Sad. Angry.

What about mixing emotions? Emotions are rarely come by themselves, and quite often they are opposing spectrums. One that fascinates me the most is the spectrum of the masochist. Not pain per say, but let’s say anger. Hardship. Through anger, pain, hardship, stress. These types can find an ocean of willpower and strength through the bizarre combination of happiness and anger.

Why am I spouting off on this shit? Because like all the arts, emotions play a massive part in what we (as artists) produce. I operate on a spectrum that is so alien to some that it is repulsive. I operate like a masochist. I find immense pleasure in feeling anger, feeling pain. Sometimes, the more miserable I am, the more…”free” I feel. Especially when it comes to writing.

Fucked up, huh? I’ve been tracing this shit all over the place, trying to find out why I am like the way I am. Many experiences, values, lessons, etc all combine and pour into us to define who “we” are as a person. I like to take a closer look, and as far back as I can remember, I was verbally abused.

By parents? Never. Loved ones? Never. Friends? Never. I was very fortunate there. But, I was mercilessly made fun of in school. I mean, isn’t it obvious? My life slowly became defined by the amount of misery I was in. And I wasn’t happy. Isolation, masturbation, vindication. All these solo activities and fantasies ingrained in me a haphazard and dysfunctional way of defining my world. My world was anger and pain. So. It’s what I became used to, and it’s what I love. The more I am hated, the better I feel, and the more I can hate back. The easier it is to destroy. I didn’t feel “normal” happiness, so I had to teach myself to relish pain, anger, and hate and accept these emotions as what I personally call happiness.

Strange-ass shit. But I can assure you, this isn’t an internet tough guy routine.

Through much therapy and medication, I’ve learned to re-think the way I am wired for happiness. But, I will always indulge in that horrible anger that I always have inside of me. It’s a part of my personality, a part of how I operate. I need a personal investment, an emotion to find anything worth while, and the more intense the feeling the easier I can associate and deal with my world.

Writing is an act of masturbation for us all. And masochism for me. Two very isolated activities in my mind that bring me great joy. What kind of joy? True happiness? Or my definition of it? See what I’m talking about? It’s an area of infinite grey. Violence, sex, joy, anger. It all turns into the same thing for me. But only when I am isolated.

We are very rough on ourselves. I know I am. The self-abuse that I inflict via poor actions, or masturbatory actions (not necessarily sexual) that just tear me apart. In some sick way, I am happy when I am miserable- whether it be physical, mental, or spiritual pain. And when I am what most would call a “normal” state of happiness, I sometimes can accept it and enjoy it and embrace it. But other times, I find myself hollow, having a gaping chasm inside myself that the anger and pain would fill.

Writing isn’t therapeutic. I do love it, though. I have too many thoughts, too many stories to tell. All so violent, and twisted. So beautifully corrupted and corrosive. Poisonous. Infected. Writing is an act of psychic masochism for me. What my characters choose, what I do to them, why I do it. It gives me power where I never had any, a vessel to express my anger and fantasies in a safe way. Does that make it therapeutic? Fuck, I don’t know.

With that all said, find an emotion that you write with. Why do you write with it? What is your happiness mixed with? Is in unfiltered? Answer these questions, and you’ll write better. In order to entertain others, me must entertain ourselves first. If we want them to feel what we inflict upon them, we must feel it first and be willing to accept it.

What, you thought writing was all about franchises and movie deals? No. The good writers, the real writer has to write because it is a thundering need inside of them. I tell you all this shit not because I want pity. Not because I want to look tough. I tell you it because. Well? It’s true. I have no regrets with my life, or how I live it (for the most part). I don’t need validation, or attention. This entry is what it is, and you can accept it, use it, abuse it, or ignore it. It’s all up to you.

Why the fuck. Do you write? Spill it.