Tag Archives: pain

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?

 

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.

What I’m Trying To Do

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

What the fuck is this guy trying to do?

Oh, this question is a familiar one. This blog, my body of work, myself, my actions. They’ve all been subject to consideration and even at times confusion, but there has always been one thing that constantly stands out about me. I don’t like rules. Never did. I feel…confined by them, constricted, claustrophobic. Rules. A lot of good they’ve done me in the writing industry. A lot of good they did thousands of would be authors. I don’t like their rules, the publishers, the literary magazines, the agents. Their rules piss me off.

I’ve been trying to get published for…eight years now. Eight fuckin’ years. And I know it takes a long time. And I know I have the talent. But things just don’t pan out. A sob story? Hardly. A cautionary tale? Completely.

I got tired of authors telling me to pick a new profession. I got tired of literary agents telling me to stuff my manuscript up my ass because it wouldn’t make them enough money to buy that golden dildo they’ve always wanted. I got tired of publishing houses NEVER even telling my they didn’t want my shit. I have had enough, and I’ve decided to make my own rules.

That’s what this blog is all about. I will deliver personal musings and shit like that, but I will show you what one author goes through to write a book from start to finish. My ideas, my drawings, my struggles, my triumphs, my joy, my pain. I’ll jab a fucking pen into my neck and bleed all of my darkest ideas and inner thoughts on a webpage for all of you to read. I will describe books that I write and proofread in detail, and show you what it’s like to write a book from idea, to published work. That’s where I’m different. That’s where I break the rules.

A lot of authors are private, whimpy little fucks that need specific conditions to write, and want to be hidden from the eyes of society. No, not me. I write books for the beasts inside us all, and if I hide  my own monsters from you as I write, what the fuck am I but a pathetic hypocrite, suckling curdled milk from the tired tit called the internet. No, I’ll write like I fuck. Like I fight. Like I bleed. I’ll show you what a book is from the inside out, and you’ll love every second of it.

So. Read this blog, if you will, and you will find out what it is like to feel joy and rage in the same day as you force yourself to kill a character you developed in your head. Give birth to a novel, and tear it to shreds before you begin. You will see me in my purest form- when I’m writing, and you will watch with delight as I suffer, or thrive. Get ready, you motherfuckers.

This is unlike anything you have ever seen before.