Sample Chapter: Path of the Warrior Shaman

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


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 with a Weapon

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.


Rage and hate burn away all other emotions, but they leave behind toxic ashes.

One day at a time. Each day drags, one day at a time. Substances make time pass faster, make life more bearable. Wondering always if there is one more thing to worry about, to feel. Guilt. Regret? One more bolt of regret. A dagger skins the conscious being, never letting it feel peace. Piece. Chunks of it.

Every day the rage grows. It isn’t always at the forefront. Screaming, punching, breaking, slamming. It’s subtle sometimes, like an inert volcano. Magma bubbles beneath until that breaking point, that breaking point where there’s an eruption. I can feel you death. Your claws reach but can’t catch yet. Staring into the hollow pits you call eyes, beholding the horror of beyond.

What about death? What about it? Consider the moment of death, knowing that it’s coming. There is no cure, no one to help. Only death. Do we feel death arrive? Does it make a grand entrance, or does it merely stumble backstage as we live the last few moments of life, waiting like a proud parent when out performance is done?

Death and pain are friends, but they have separate lives. Death teaches us one lesson, but pain teaches many. Death and pain. Rage. There is nothing but anger and there aren’t enough places to scream on this planet to lose it all. The killing comes to mind, right? Stab wounds, gunshots, crushing, beating, burning, hanging, strangling, drowning, bleeding. All normal. All feelings that are valid. Every piece of it all fits into place.

One cannot be expected to sit here and read such ramblings.

Rage, flowing forth as a molten stream of ire and vigor, hotter than any star. Blood, pain, death, rage burns them all away. Happiness, acceptance, kindness, rage burns them too. Anger incinerates, and leaves behind a greasy, sooty mess that stains the godamn soul to its core. Not even blood taken in retribution can wash the ashen marks. The scars of hot embers.

Anger always has fuel. It’ll eat all I feed it, and I have too much to give. I am a furnace, and this world hates my anger. Peace. Peace is the way to go, but what if one is not peaceful? What if one is prone to violence, pain, hate, and death? What place is reserved for those who resist peace, or who cannot accept peace, or worst of all, is unable to accept peace?

Each moment of peace is perforated by guilt. Guilt of lost time towards important things. Each moment of peace is corrupted by the passage of time, one second ticking away after the other. Blood leaks, time passes, and death swings his scythe, one loping swath, clear-cutting, grisly bounty. Harvest.

I am tried. Tired and angry. Cold. Energy used for staying awake and being polite wants to be transformed towards more active imaginings. I am tired.

So tired.


I’ll Write when I Godamn Please

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.


Stepping Forward in Shit

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?


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

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.


Your meat is already dead.


Emotions Used in Writing

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.

Kindle Formatting Frustrations

I have never run into a bigger load of fuckin’ horsehshit in my entire life.

Formatting my cocksuckin’ book for muthafuckin’ Kindle has been as joyful as popping hemroids with a flamin’ needle and then jamming said needle into the tip of my cock and blowing my nose into my own ass. It’s fuckin’ unbelievable all the shit you have to go through to get this motherfucker published. It’s insane. Sure, it’s easy to upload the god damn file to Kindle. But. You gotta format that motherfucker first.

Fortunately, there are some kind souls out there that have posted guides. You can find a whole host of them on YouTube. Here are just a few: Part One, Part Two, Part Three (thanks Paul Salvette!).

I didn’t know that I had to learn HTML, and CSS, and WEEWEE5, and DICKSHIT8-2.0. Turns out I did. I’m not giving up, though. Oh no. No sir. Not fuckin’ givin’ this shit up. It has become waaaaaaaaaaaaay too personal for me to walk away now.

Oh, things try to stop me. This keyboard, for instance? I have to rail the FUCK out of the spacebar to insure that I get a space between my words. My hard drive? If I touch it, it disconnects and reconnects. Lotsa shit like that happens, but I am not stopping. No. No fuckin’ way.

I don’t givea good flopping fuck what shit this whole process throws at me. I’ll deal with it all. I was excited to get my book on Kindle post haste, but it turns out I have a VERY long way to go. I’m going to juggle publishin’ my shit, and update this fuckin’ blog with the new book I’m writing. I will try an keep myself from punching my dick through my computer monitor in sheer fuckin’ rage while slamming my own fist into my ass because I hate m’damn self. Stay with me motherfuckers, cuz’ it’s gonna get a whole lot FUNNIER from here on out.






The Wrong Cover Letter

       Here’s a bit of humor for ya. This is the cover letter I wish I had the guts to send somewhere when I was in college. It’s good for a laugh. Enjoy:


Dear Sir or Fucking Madam:

 I am writing for inquisition of my piece Fuck Your Mother (word count: 559,006.334) for submission in the literary journal, We’ll Never Take yer Shit.

I am aware that the acceptance rate for new authors is negative 10 percent, and I am also aware that if I have some kind of shiny badge or award, I will be accepted into your shitty anus of a journal, so I would just like to say that I ain’t got shit for awards, and this letter will fall on deaf ears.

Fuck Your Mother is a literary non-fiction psychological romance thriller that begs the question: Why are literary magazines filled to the brim with shit? It answers by saying that no matter how much I write, I will need some kind of acceptance or award in order to be submitted into other literary journals, and I will need a whole godamn PILE of literary awards  in order to get an agent for my novel, Suck my Metaphorical Dick.

            It’s funny that I noticed this trend of crap and how it smells up my life with ridiculous reasons and austere and pompous attitudes. Just because my work isn’t accepted into fucking Glimmertrain or The Black Warrior Review, doesn’t mean my work is bad.

            It just means that it doesn’t have a shiny award.

            This goes for millions of other writers out there, some who get so fucking discouraged that they stop writing, and decide to get some shit job working late in order to finish their play which will never been seen by anyone.

            Also, I will have a college degree very soon, but will wind up working in a fucking Wal-Mart because let’s face it- if you got a degree in English, you basically have a degree in poverty.

            So, I’ve essentially wasted my money which is my fault, and I am wasting my time, which is your fault because I know damn well that this will be overlooked and scrapped because “I am an emerging writer fresh out of college and I am hungry to learn about the business of writing”, blah blah FUCKING blah.

            Thank you for your time (not really) and consideration (rejection) for my piece Fuck your Mother. It has been an anal-retentive joy to write this shitrag, and I hope you all burn in Hell for what you do to young, good writers and their drive to EXSIST!


Blow me,



     When I wrote this, I’d about had it with the publishing industry and its bullshit. I laughed my shlong off when I went back to read it, but when I wrote it? It was liberating. Try it one day. Write a cover letter that totally expresses your frustrations and anger. Share it here, I’d love to read it.