DILDOS!

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Sometimes I think that the whole world is just one big sphere of burning shit, and we are all merely looking for a cool spot.

I hate everyone in the godamn planet, starting with myself. Therefore, I project my self hatred onto everything I see, much like the bullies that tormented me when I was young.

At least that’s what I should be doing. No, I’ve decided, because I’m a fuckin’ genius, that I’ll turn all my outward hatred inward, to add on top of all the inner hate brewing! Misery loves company, and I am my only friend sometimes.

Every day is a new excuse to hate.

Being a human, hate is my favorite thing in the world. I hate people I encounter that “wrong” me, I hate people that wrong others, and I hate myself. Especially when I am too fuckin’ angry and depressed to get off my ass and actually DO something to make myself feel better.

Let me clue you assholes in if you weren’t listening, or if you’re stupid. The world is basically a knot of bullshit, and life is you trying to untangle that without any help from anybody else (REAL help). When you’re dead, well then! Hope you got a straight fuckin’ chord to be proud of, because the only thing that’s gonna give two shits about your fuckin’ caracass in 50 years is the fuckin’ grave.

Every single day is an act in willpower to be civil. To be kind and turn the other cheek, to be mild and submissive, like all good little FUCK slaves should. Yeah, just open your fuckin’ mouth and let life shoot a nice thick bolt of semen down your throat, because that is essentially what waking up feels like.

There’s no inspirational message here! There’s no…happy ending! Life is a brutal fucking struggle to the day you die, and those of us who are rich? Fuck you. Fuck you for everything you have, and fuck your family too. Most of all? Fuck ME for allowing myself to even say and think these things for THAT is my greatest folly.

I’ve simply become a “unique” hybrid of everything I hate, and there is not a single fucking thing I can do about it until I can accept that.

Every point made in this blog is moot. There is no point. There is no message. Don’t fuckin’ listen to me. Hate me, because that’s what all men and women like me deserve.

Sample Chapter: Path of the Cleric

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Got inspired over the weekend to create a new character for my 99 cent novellas. This guy is a Cleric- a holy priest that wields might and magic. Take a look:

99 Cent Novellas: Path of the Cleric, Book One

All ideas and concepts by The Disfigured, 2013

“’Sadness and hate blanket much of our world. There are souls wandering the planet, trapped between blood and spirit. Some are good. Victims of unfortunate circumstances, terrible incidents, and sometimes? A grisly demise. Some are evil. Twisted, terrible monstrous shades that barely can still be called…earthly.’”

“’Necromancy is a magical art that taps into the pain and agony of the dead, summoning such spirits and the emotions they carry with them in order to help, defend, and guide each and every Necromancer here. Remember this, acolytes. The dead that we call forth for our aid are doing us a favor. They are not our slaves. And in exchange for helping us, it is our duty to guard the land of the dead, and insure that each and every noble soul has an opportunity to find rest, and face the judgment of their god. We are the Necromancers from the Order of Glendoul, and we. Are the Keepers of the Dead.’”

The Cleric sat at his kitchen table, staring intently over a wooden goblet filled with warm tea. His armor exchanged for more relaxed outfit of robes, his mace resting next to him on the table, his hand near its grip. There was much to be done in Melias. Many wrongs to be righted, many dark deeds unpunished, but for now? His morning cup of tea was getting cold, and his disposition wasn’t fairing any better.

He missed the Temple. The jungle, and its people. But the need to destroy evil burned inside him. He was not a Paladin. No, he was  Cleric, a priest trained in both combat and the divine arts. He did not quest for righteousness with blind zeal. He watched both sides of the line, and walked the middle, clad in steel and silken robe.

This Cleric was religious like most. But he was also different. Wisdom lurked behind his eyes, as well as a sense of awareness that kept his mind and soul open to the churning cauldron of emotion that was Melias. He did not waste time with ritual, ceremonies, or sermons. He travelled to places of great evil and darkness and sought only to bring light and to scatter the demons lurking in the black.

But today was different. He could feel turmoil in the heart of Melias. He could hear the miserable wailing of lost spirits calling out incoherent and tortured gibberish. Quickly, he refocused his mind and shut the trap door where he tiptoed through the land of the dead. The Order of Glendoul were making the Golem once more. He was certain of it, and he knew that he must prepare quickly, or Melias could fall into a time of great darkness.

Of course it’s a first draft, but I’d love some feedback.

My Opinions are Poisonous- But they are Mine

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Here are my opinions. Hopefully I can spark some discussion among you all.

Most of the time, I write with gritted teeth and an ember of white hot hate in my heart. This world I view, I look at it through tired metaphors for eyes, and cliche comparisons to the aging process and how I’m becoming more and more of an adult. Every tiny thing that we are forced to bare witness to chips away at the very fabric of what we are. Television, movies, video games, books, magazines, commercials. You name it. In lieu of brainwashing theories I substitute hatred. Hatred in its purest form, unbiased except for my own disposition and belief systems.

How do you picture your hate? Hmm? Is it a burning fire, or a raging Goliath? Me? I picture my hate as an infinite puddle of black ink, unable to reflect its surroundings. It is sticky, venomous, and absolutely thrilling. I love hating. I love hatred. I love anger. Pain. I like to inflict it upon my enemies, and I like to feel it within myself.

Understanding such things are alien to most. I sit and watch as each moment ticks away, each moment grows longer and less defined and all I can feel is apathy and hate. Hate is always there. And anger is soon to follow. Know what I saw today? Angelina Jolie makes her first public appearance after she decided to have a preemptive mastectomy. And she was showered with accolades and praise. Fuck her and fuck her titties. It’s not news.

People in Turkey are getting fucked up. Some poor bastard overseas got run over and decapitated by two assholes hiding behind the guise of Islam. John Holmes’ insanity plea was taken, so he won’t be prosecuted like the rest of us. Michael Jackson’s parasitic family is trying to suck more money out of some hapless bastard that had contact with MJ before he died. Almost in the same month, another pedophilia accusation was placed up against Jackson. Why? Not for justice of course. The “victim” was seeking cash reparations.

Good people do good deeds nowadays. Donating to the poor, the sick, the discarded. Some people save other people’s lives in hospitals, on the street, on the job. Fuck em’. Know why? They see that god is watchin’. They see that god is watchin’, and the know that the great big karma train is coming around again to pick them up and take them to a better place. They live in fear, terrified of the world and all the evil and good in it. They are weak. And I despise them.

I am all for abortion. I am all for gay marriage. I’m all for more background checks and less gun control. I’m all for legalizing all drugs. I am all for vigilantism. And I am a staunch supporter of road rage. Militant Atheism is more close-minded than ANY religion, and intellectualism never existed because humans are able to shove body parts together and exchange fluid. I believe that suicide is cowardly and selfish. I believe that bullies should be prosecuted as adults, regardless of age. I believe that those being bullied should stand up and fight back, and not by telling their parents or teachers, but with a quick punch to the throat and then a knee to the face.

We are alone in this world. All of us. We marry, we date, we get roommates. We find fuck buddies, friends, acquaintances. But will always be alone. We come into the world alone, and we should all die alone. In violence. Not in illness or of an old, peaceful age. But one of violence. A car crash, a gunfight, a nasty bar room melee. The world…the whole world has gone soft. It’s not the violence we commit, or the destruction we bring. It’s not the fear, the cowardice, the back room politics.

We, all of humanity, is a race of cowards. We stand up for nothing, and we ignore injustice. And we do finally make a stand, it is typically with a petition, or a fuckin’ protest sign, rather than with a fist and our guts filled with fire. All the figures that have stood as an inspiration to so many are full of shit. There are no idols. There is no ONE god. There are no good causes, or bad causes. There are merely people inflicting pain or pleasure on one another, and we just choose sides. Morality has become a massive grey area that we all fall prey to. We know what is right and wrong. We are not products of our environment, we are products of our soul. We all commit evils. We all commit good. But we no longer have a spine.

Weakness and ignorance are the two greatest threats to this planet and the “peace” that can never be achieved. There is no room for compromise because all opposing sides are so desperately trying to be right. But there’s one thing I can say with certainty. One thing that I can take a stand on, and allow it to guide me. But I realized something quickly after writing this last paragraph.

…I never came up with anything. So what does that make me?

I don’t fucking care what it makes me. All I care about is what I can do in spite of it.

Sample Chapter: Path of the Warrior Shaman

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Just finished the intro to what is soon to be my newest novella: The Path of the Warrior Shaman: Book One. Take a look:

PATH OF THE WARRIOR SHAMAN: IDEAS, WRITINGS, AND CONCEPTS BY THE DISFIGURED, 2013

Clouds conspired to block the sun; its beams choked by the umbranous thunderheads. The Warrior Shaman stood against the dark edges of those thunderheads, watching the lightening flash within them. A roar of thunder made his pulse quicken, the blood in his veins frothing as his heart slammed into his sternum. Lightening struck nearby. He could feel its heat, but he did not shield himself from it. The rain came soon thereafter, and he accepted it, never looking for shelter.

The cliff he stood on overlooked a large portion of Galivec, Jol’Tah Hak was a merely a point of grey on the horizon. Soon, the shadows flooded the valley, and he was alone with the coming storm. He lowered his head and allowed a grimace to darken his brow and lips, his dark brown beard beading the rainfall and running rivulets down the middle of his chest. He was distant now, barely feely the icy cold water.

Thousands of soldiers were in the valley below him, looking up, waiting for his signal as their enemies approached. The storm above grew more violent. Massive arcs of searing hot lightening smashed into the ground, extending its branches, making his allies cower below him in the valley. The sky was completely overcast, a shade of steely grey, and pitch black where the clouds rumbled in fury.

The Warrior Shaman stood silently, his mind focusing on the storm. His sword at his right hand, his axe at the left, he drew them both and let them stand at attention near his hips. Water dripped off the weapons, but soaked into the wooden handle of his axe. He could feel its heartbeat thud into his bones, its anger mounting as the storm grew more violent above.

Soldiers, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, approached from the other side of the valley, their voices almost drowning out the thunder. Still the sky grew darker, casting the entire land into a false night. Torches and a few patches of haphazard sun illuminated the valley like an ethereal leopard’s pelt. The Warrior Shaman’s eyes glowed a dark orange, tiny pinpoints in the dark, but piercing and terrible. As the light changed on his face, the strange glow would flicker on and off, disappearing completely against the bright white strobe of lightening.

Now the battlefield was bloated with murder as the two armies stood against one another. A mere one hundred yards were all that separated the two opposing factions, one side clad in yellow, red and white, the other dark green and gold. The Warrior Shaman’s eyes widened, his teeth clenching, his breathing quick. He raised his left arm into the sky, and screamed in pain and fury as a bolt of lightning struck the axe head, transferring the unbelievable energy into his hand. He could feel the power coursing through him, the rage of nature contained within his tiny, fragile body.

The thunder from this lightening strike was deafening, and an eerie hush fell over the battlefield. He opened his mouth, his voice shattering the silence, carried on the thunder. “You will all die today if you do not lay down your arms and return to the north from whence you came!” He screamed. The opposing army laughed at him, and charged forward, blades, axes, spears, polearms, bows, drawn and eager for killin’. With a scream, he cast an enormous bolt of lightening mere inches from the charging horde, stopping them in their tracks. Those closest to the impact where blind and soon afterwards deaf as the thunder issued forth from the point of impact, no doubt an effect of the Warrior Shaman’s magic.  They looked up at him, and one solider stepped forward, recognizing the insidious dark orange glow of the shaman’s eyes.

He ran back into the ranks to find the general, who was safely ensconced behind a wall of archers and infantry. He screamed, “we must surrender! We must surrender!” and leapt upon an officer’s horse. Before the officer had a second to punish him for his audacity, the soldier said, “forgive me m’lord, but please, please take me to our General. I could save all of our lives today.” The terror in the boy’s eyes and the rabid urgency of his voice lead the officer on.

The crowd parted for the pair on the war horse, and soon, the soldier reached his General. He jumped down off the horse, and seized the General by his breastplate. “What are you?” He screamed, but the soldier interrupted him. “M’Lord, m’Lord! Please, do not strike me down! Listen to me! Their wizard possesses a storm cataract! We will die to a man if we fight today!”

“A storm cataract? I should gut you for such cowardly lies!”

“No sir, please! I saw glow of the demon in his eyes!”

“Blood orange?” The soldier had the General’s attention.

“None other.” The General looked at the soldier, and rode to the front line on his horse. He looked up to the Warrior Shaman, and yelled, “Wizard! My sources tell me you possess the storm cataract!”

“I do.” The Warrior Shaman replied. His voice was as thunder, and could be heard throughout the entire valley.

“Prove it. Prove it, and we will all lay down our arms! I’ve only seen one other spellslinger like you before, and I don’t believe-“

Three bolts of lightening screamed forth from the black ink that was the sky, striking the Warrior Shaman’s axe. He sheathed his weapons, and wrestled with the energy, his teeth clenched and his browed furrowed with fury as he tried to hold back the wrath of nature. His body ached with the immense power, and his nose begun to bleed. Now disarmed, he held his arms out in front of him, palms up, his fingers locked into claws as tiny arcs of electricity climbed in-between them. Soon, a huge arc leapt from one hand to the other, a peal of thunder in short pursuit afterwards. He threw his hands to the sky, screaming as he flung the lightening into the sky, piercing the thunderclouds.

After the thunder died down, the valley filled with a new sound- the sound of countless weapons being dropped to the ground.

The storm calmed only after they were all gone.

Good or bad, long as its serious, I want feedback.

Writing is a Higher Form of Masturbation

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I’m not joking about the title.

When you think about it, what does a writer really do? Just that- we have stories in our heads, so we gotta get them out. Well, at least that’s what it’s like for me, but I must say the whole process from start to finish just makes me stiff. I love writing and comin’ up with shit as much as the next author, so I’ve decided to try out a new idea. All too often (and I’m sure 99.9% of you can relate to this), I have ideas that will never fit into a novel. They’re too small scale, or they’d be good for a scene in a novel, or something like that. And some of them actually aren’t all that asinine. So that leaves me with an overflow of cool ideas that might work together, but nowhere to put them. Until now, bitches.

Thanks to AutoRealm, I can create gigantic worlds as a framework for my ideas. All you do is download this program (it’s free) and you can create massive maps (or small ones) that can be used for role playing, recreation, or whatever. After getting used to the interface, I created a world called Melias, and this is where I will start with my new idea:

99 Cent Novellas.

I figured, what better way than to stroke my brain than putting all these little ideas and scenes into a novella? Like serials. They can be produced quickly (and with quality), and can be sold for cheap. Every single one of these novellas that I will produce will be 99 cents on Amazon. All of em’. And these novellas won’t stop at just Melias. I plan on creating a whole host of other worlds with a whole string of fresh novellas! And here’s the thing. Each novella will be its own story, with unique characters and places. Here, take a look at where the first group of novellas will take place:

99CN_Galivec

Galivec is a relatively small continent in Melias, and will be the stage for my first tale: The Path of the Warrior Shaman. Here’s some concept art of the main character:

99CN_WarriorShaman

Ah, fresh ideas, fresh starts. Love it. See what I mean? How can writing not be akin to pullin’ the mower? I created a skeleton where I can literally write with no limits as much or as little as I want. And since I have another job other than this one, I don’t need to worry about writing being my main source of income. I can focus on the writing and the art, and that’s all I really want. A limitless creative outlet that I can take refuge in.

Too many people see writing as a business. And that makes for shitty writing. More and more authors, writers, whatever need to remember (if they haven’t already) that you must be true to your art form. Take criticism, but don’t ever let it completely alter the fundamentals of your work. Because when we get down to it, who are we really creating novels, paintings, poems, blah blah blah for?

Our metaphorical authorpenis.

Focus

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Intensity has followed me since I was a child. Focus not so much.

Time comes, and time goes. But when we exist within it, we can truly make our mark. Motivation, skill, talent, understanding, knowledge. These things come if we are open to them, and willing to work for them. And I am starting to see that many of my problems, personal, professional, you name it, stem from myself. Myself and how I react to different situations.

I am not proud do say that I am petty and bitter. Angry. Unforgiving. I am proud to say that I am kind, compassionate, and peaceful at heart. I exist in constant contradiction, which causes conflict that is not welcomed, or unwelcome. It is accepted. So here comes the question, what the FUCK is this asshole writing about? Focus. That’s what I’m writing about. Focus.

Determination and focus should go hand in hand, and eventually, they should lead you to a zenith where they can both slice through any problem, any excuse, any qualm. And expose your true path. If you read my last entry, I’m shifting my focus a little bit. I still very much want to complete Blestemul, but my mind…my mind gets bored very quickly. Being locked in a shifting prison of haphazard thought has pros and cons. Fuck, now I’m rambling.

I wanna try something different!

I am going to start my own legitimate business very soon. An engine that serves all aspects of my life as a writer. Whether or not I make money is irrelevant at this moment. The point is, I want to try something different.

But this entry isn’t all about me and my new business venture. No, that was just a launchpad for the true purpose of this entry. Focus. Every single one of you have tremendous power within you. And I don’t mean that “YOU’RE SPECIAL” kind of power. No, you have cognition and awareness. When paired with human ingenuity, curiosity and mortality, you are able to create and destroy at a moment’s notice.

So what are you doing with this power? As for me, I was wasting it. Maybe I still am, but I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna at least try to tap into the gifts of humanity. Not my personal “gifts”, no. Gifts that we, Homo sapiens, are created with, evolved to have. Each of us is an infinite well of creation and destruction, and each action we commit to the Earth changes us.

With all that power, how could you fail? Better yet, don’t answer that. Just act.

New Projects, Old Ideas

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I have an idea.

I’ve been working a lot on Blestemul, but I’ve never undertaken a project this big before (it’s a long book, that’s all) and I find myself getting bored. Not to the point where I want to stop, mind you. No way. But I need something different to occupy my brain. I need to create something new. I don’t know why, and maybe? I don’t wanna know. But enough of that. Here’s my idea.

I’m thinking of creating a book, or a series of novellas, based on one character that is untouchable. Not invincible, untouchable. Undefeatable. And a whole shit ton of more -ables to come. Don’t think about the character, though. Think about this instead. What would you do if you could pursue any personal objective/mission/quest and know that you could not be stopped? I am creating a character that has no physical flaws, none, and can literally achieve any objective he puts his mind to.

Where’s the fun in that? Well. That’s the second part of my idea.

I plan to use this character as a way to express protest against modern issues and ideals for my own personal satisfaction. Think about all the travesties in the world. Think about all the people starving, dying, murders, rape, abuse, war, killing, destruction, etc. Think about how powerless you feel sometimes about these issues. Now imagine yourself being able to tackle these problems, alone, and solving them however you wished. Knowing full well that your agenda cannot be stopped. That’s the kind of character that I making, and that is the “lofty” goal I wish to achieve.

Say this plan takes off. I have a few more ideas that I want to put into play to see what happens. Just to find out how things will end up.

Humans for the most part cannot change the world. Activism, protest, petitions. They do good, true, but there aren’t enough well wishes, likes on facebook, donations, or philanthropists to solve the biggest problems we face everyday. War, for one, cannot be stopped by anything. But. What if you were the only thing that could stop it? What would you do?

That’s what this new book(s) will be exploring. The will of one man and that cannot be stopped, and how he can change the world. Am I writing it as an inspiration piece? Not really. In all honesty, I just really want to write about killing and maiming the enemies of humanity.

Boston and her Pain

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The violence committed in Boston shouldn’t have been a shock to anyone.

Our world is churning with hate, and violence is inevitable in a planet where everyone is on top of one another. The bombing in Boston shouldn’t come as a shock to anyone. Why? Because violence is everywhere, and when we think we’re safe, we’re punished for our lack of attention.

Do I believe Boston deserved this attack? Absolutely fuckin’ NOT. 

I just don’t understand why we thought we were invulnerable.

I watched the news you know. Listened to people talking about the attack, hearing people say “is nowhere safe anymore?” I’ve also heard of people were looking for a scapegoat too dig into. Oh you name it, police, military, the president. It’s all their fault for letting us get attacked. For not seeing this happen. Not stopping it. The fault lies with the bomber.

That being said, when do we take some responsibility for our own safety?

I got news for you. The world isn’t safe. And this isn’t a modern day thing either, the old timers sayin’ that the world was a calmer, more gentle place in their time don’t know shit. Since its godamn inception out of the burning cosmic asshole that was the big bang, Earth has been a place of violence, terror, and death. When people say, “is nowhere safe anymore?” I find it so…tragic. No place was ever safe. Not anywhere. And the bombing in Boston proves it. Fuck, name any major attack (foreign or domestic) on the United States, they all stand as proof. And this shit happens daily in other counties, so how can we even think that this planet is safe?

Humans exist on a foundation of violence. It’s all we know. And it often takes such a terrible act of violence to open our eyes, and get each other to work together. Like 9/11. But oh, oh how quickly we forgot our patriotic duties once the hurt dissolved and time buried the event in the ethereal graveyard of our collective memories. And soon, Boston will pass away as an unfortunate event too. And we, humanity, won’t learn a godamn thing.

So here’s my fuckin’ lesson for you:

Stay alert. If you think you’re safe, you’re not. But don’t live in fear. Live in vigilance. Live in confidence. Be ready to fight, protect, or flee. Be ready to respond to crisis and violence. Be responsible for your own safety because we all don’t have a personal bodyguard at our side 24/7 to protect us. And when there is no one to protect us, who can we rely on? Stop thinking you’re safe because it will kill you. And when you hear someone say, “is nowhere safe anymore?” you can reply with confidence: “No. There isn’t. But that doesn’t mean I have to be afraid.”

May all those who died in the attack find peace, and may those who were hurt in the Boston bombing be of swift recovery, and may all of those effected by the bombing outside of the tangible victims find peace and understanding as they come to accept the new life that was forced upon them.

Writing with a Weapon

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Events in the world today make me fucking sick.

As humanity drags itself along a shattered glass highway, leaving a trail of shit and blood for us all to follow, I cannot help but feel a glimmer of rage that burns until nothing but hatred is left behind. Hate is a strange thing. Directed, it can change the world. Unsupervised, it can destroy it- but let’s not talk about hate right now. Let’s talk about what we can do in a world that wants to keep us all under control.

The pen is mightier than the sword, I’ve heard. And I think that’s bullshit. A sword is something that we can all understand, a symbol of violence and death, or a symbol of order and justice. Or pick your own meaning. No, the pen isn’t mightier than the sword. They are both tools, and the sword is clearly the better tool. The writer is the real lethal weapon. Rather the mind, the human mind, so hopelessly complex and always changing, always shrouded in mystery. There is the true weapon. Creation. Imagination.

One could read into the above phrase and discern what I have said, but at its bare face value, I’ve always hated that godamn phrase. It’s so…one sided and ambiguously frank. Why write with a pen and ignore the sword? Why not write with a sword?

Write with a sword.

I like to wield writing as a weapon. I like to administer punishment for the people who read my work. Force atonement. Just once, just once with one piece of work. As I peer into the abyss that is this planet and all the humans on it, I find that the inky black soup that has become our collective soul as a species churns with violence and anger. Opinions, words, thoughts, they are lost in that abyss.

Me? I don’t think I’ll change the world. Or maybe I’m being humble. Or maybe, changing the world is my goal, but I don’t think I’m up to the task. Or maybe I’m just blowing a thick column of smoke up your ass. Smoke that comes from a special source- a pile of burning bullshit.

Who knows. Who cares? Not me.

Wield writing as a weapon, godamn you. I see too many writers censoring themselves, lacking confidence, lying to themselves, procrastinating. It makes me sick. Writers used to be hard and desperate people, not the elevated “literary” pseudo-intellectuals that enjoy the sound of their own voice, a voice that sounds to me like a sloppy shit.

Teachers, professors, literary agents, publishers, editors. They all tell you to write a certain way, to be refined, to make changes where you don’t want to make changes, to write what they want you to write, all the meanwhile, you are dying. Your creativity is dying. Why be refined? Why submit to format? Who gives a flying fuck about MLA rules? Citing your sources correctly? Who fuckin’ cares if my essay doesn’t have a godamn intro, body, and conclusion? Who the fuck are you to tell me how I should be fuckin’ writing? Nobody, that’s who.

Fuck the teachers. The professors, the literary agents, the publishers, editors, bosses, friends, acquaintances, proofreaders, police, politicians, fuck ’em all! They all seek to stifle your voice with formatting, rules, and/or censorship. No, no, no, use your writing like a weapon. Wield what you write, don’t read it! Where is your spine as a writer? Where has your fucking fire gone?

Get dirty! Write violence, fucking, dying, breeding- write what you feel and only what you feel, and if someone doesn’t like it, who. Gives. A. Flying. Fuck?

My next project is going to be just that. It is going to be a piece, or pieces, of writing that will be written with a sword. Too long have we all conformed to what our “teachers” and “leaders” have told us. I am writing a piece that will attack, that will punish, that will make people think differently through personal connection, or by completely hating me.

Do I want attention? I don’t know. All I know is I’m going to write without boundaries anymore. Without rules. I’m going to strike this planet with my words, and inflict the pain and anger that I have screaming inside of me that I cannot let out. I am going to write like a savage, and there is nothing this fuckin’ world and all its bullshit can do to stop me.

Don’t let it stop you, either.

Approaching the Zenith

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Anticipation builds as I approach the most climatic moments of Blestemul.

As a writer, I find these feelings difficult to deal with. Sometimes, I can accept them. Channel them. Sometimes, the thought of finishing a book, or writing along to the end is very intimidating. It’s not the size of the project (a book is done when it’s done) its the…well fuck. I don’t know what it is. It’s a weird backwards anxiety that wants to be embraced and ignored all at the same time.

Writing hand to hand combat scenes, gunfights, large scale battles, these are things that are well, once again, intimidating. The violence and intensity, and the utter intimacy of combat is difficult to capture. And I still don’t know if I am doing it well enough. And it’s not just action sequences- there are many large and powerful plot points that are coming up, ones that will completely change the face of the book and allow it to go into a different direction. There’s a lot of pressure there, but then again, all I’m doing is tellin’ a story.

But that point is trivial. The feelings are still there.

Big moments in books come in many shapes and sizes, and they are all a little scary to face and actually flesh out. You name it: love scenes, loss scenes, pivotal parts where your protag meets your antag, killing important characters, dialogue, oh the list goes on and on, and every author worth their salt meets these challenges head on and the good ones execute with precision and merciless vocabulary. And the gravity of these plot points can be daunting to anyone that means to tell a story. But it must be done.

I guess the purpose of this entry was mostly confessional. I talk harsh, violent, and to the point, but I’m still a human wrapped in a greasy shell of meat, and I can still feel fear. Anxiety. Sheepish. And…I think that’s okay. Such vulnerabilities makes a better author, which in tern makes a better book. What about you?

How do you deal with such pivotal points in your stories? Novel or no, you’ve faced these challenges in fiction, and in different forms with non. Confess to us all. You’ll feel better.

And you’ll be a better writer for it.