The Creature in the Mountain Pass

I’ve reached a point in my story where I like to answer questions that the reader may have in an indirect way. I prefer to disguise these points in the ignorance of my characters. They ask the questions, and I find a way to answer them for everyone. It is annoying. It is not easy. And sometimes, it doesn’t work. But, when it does, it ties shit together nicely in a lil’ package I can call my own. Anyway, here’s the shit.

The characters of the story, Alistar, Jala, and Kone are all headed towards the next scene. And yes, I’m isolating those who read this by not explaining anything further on these characters, nor why they’re together, or what they’re doing. It’s on purpose. Anyway, they’re all headed towards the next scene, when Alistar gets separated from the group via a powerful and ancient being. The beast is never named, nor his species. He has fantastic powers and incredible stories to tell Alistar, many that validate humanity’s existence on the one in a billion shot we call Earth.

I wanted to create a being that didn’t make any sense. Creatures created out of the imagination are often based on things that we have seen before. Humanoid creatures, where eyes belong, head, tail, symmetry. You know. I thought in a different way. And I am not ashamed that I was inspired to break out of the way I normally create fictional beings because of Philip Pullman and his works.He created a species of creatures that defied symmetry and that’s what I sought out to do.

I tend to warp things. Twist them. The world is too normal, and it needs a dark slant, a sticky, sweaty mutation deep in the corners of the sane mind. So, I came out with this initially:

But that made too much sense. I decided to alter the creature more, and recently I came up with its final form. Take a look at this shit:

Much better. There is some symmetry, yes. But I mixed shit up in ways I had forgotten about. This being, this creature, is the link that provides a foundation for the rest of Alistar’s (the main character) motivations throughout the story. I had to make this fucker unique, and hopefully I didn’t fail.

What about you? Ever create somethingentirely out of your own head? Your own creature? Being? Race? I would love to know how you did it, and what it is. Don’t be shy. We’re all freaks here.

P.S.: This entry is short because I started to feel pompous when I was writing it. I wanted to stop my mind diarrhea before I started sounding like those I despise.

Inventing Plasma Weapons

One of my favorite things to do is create fictional science.

I absolutely love it. I like to take real facts, introduce a fictional variable, and then speculate on what would happen to a very normal object in a very abnormal situation. Weaponry in my latest novel, TCoU:B ranges from the standard cartridge fired out of a pistol, or rifle, along with pure plasma energy. Imagine hurling a searing hot bolt of plasma at your enemy, and watching him collapse in a heap of burns, screams, and fire. Also, I invented E.A. weapons, which stand for Energy Assisted. This is a solid slug wrapped in a comet of searing hot plasma. I have concept art, for this of course, but right now, I’m not going to talk about that. I’m going to talk about utilizing plasma as a weapon in an overview sense. I’ll get into extreme details later, I promise.

There are a few things that stop us (humanity) from using plasma in a weaponized bolt form. First, energy. We simply don’t have the amount of juice necessary to convert matter into plasma in a small, hand-held weapons system. Second, the tremendous heat thrown out by the weapon would melt the internal components and furniture of any weapon. Third, and unexpected, is brightness. Plasma throws out an enormous amount of energy that is straight-up photon. The user would be blinded completely as the bolt left the barrel of the firearm, along with anyone around him. And last, plasma oozes heat into its surroundings, making the bolt fizzle out long before it reaches its target. I have address each of these problems by adding a fictional element.

1. Energy

I created something called Umbrashard. It’s a common purple salt crystal found all over Urth that converts simple sunlight into enormous amounts of energy when properly refined and placed into battery form. I don’t mean a few gigawatts. I mean, terrawatts. Petrawats. That kinda shit. Fuck, an umbracell (the refined crystal placed into battery form) squirts out a few dozen gigawatts on a bad day. So, if this umbracell was used in a weapon, all the power in the world would be right there, in the palm of your hand. AND because of the unique crystalline structure promotes stable energy flow within Umbrashards promotes energy flow, allowing umbracells to be engineered to deliver the appropriate amount of juice for the task at hand without overloading into a massive plasma explosion. So, the fuel source is ready.

2. Heat

Plasma generated within the weapon would melt it with real world science. I introduced two Urth elements that correct this problem. Within the chamber of any plasmatic weapon there is a sophisticated circulation system that pushes a special gas into the weapon where the plasma is generated. This gas alters its temperature according to the amount of current one pours through it. The more juice you pump through the gas, the colder it gets. The best part is, you only have to do it once. The gas will never change its temperature unless it receives another jolt of energy. The element rushes into the reactor area, where the plasma is formed nanoseconds after the plasma has left the weapon and is on its way to the target. This cools the weapon before it has a chance to get incredibly hot, which also prevents warping. I’ll get into what these weapons are made of and how they fire later.

3. Light

Plasma is fuckin’ bright. Period. So, I had to remedy this somehow, and one day while I was on the shitter, I came up with something. Inside the weapon, there is a man-made lens that absorbs surrounding photons and converts a portion of them into a magnetic confinement bottle (more on this later). The lens isn’t a tangible lens. It’s a thin sheen of Blinthium, an abundant new Urth element. It is held in place by creating an alloy within a rapidly constricting vacuum, literally creating a metallic gas alloy that is so dense,  it can be shaped and held into place WHILE still being a gas. Plasma heats up the particles of the gas, passes through, receives its magnetic confinement bottle via rapid heat reaction with the Blinthium lens, flies out the weapon, and the Blinthium lens snaps back into place just before the delivery of the coolant, ready for use again. The result it a 90% reduction in visible photon energy, having it all converted into a magnetic confinement bottle via the photons’ own electromagnetic radiation through the thermal reaction with the modified Blinthium atoms in the lens.

4. Range

Remember that whole magnetic confinement bottle shit? Well, without that, the immense heat and photon energy of a plasma bolt would bloom out into the atmosphere and never reach the target. However, safe within the bottle, the plasma stays tight and dense, hitting the target with pinpoint accuracy. The bottle ruptures upon impact after interacting with the atoms of a solid surface, delivering the plasma successfully to the target.

WHOO! You think it was tough readin’ this shit? I’ve been working on this fuckin’ crap for years. Being inside my head blows, man. Well, sometimes.

Anyway, I think I’ll stop here. This is the basic overview of how a plasma weapon works in the TCoU:B universe. I’ll post my concept art for plasma weapons, along with a detailed overview of how a plasma weapon works, and what they’re made of, in the near future. I’m going on vacation for awhile, so I’ll write when I get back. Leave comments! I’ll answer them.


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.


Writer’s Block and Breaking through the Wall

I hate it when I write myself in to a corner, and I do it way too often.

As I work on TCoU:B, I felt the story prodding along more and more. Eventually, I reached a point where it was becoming forced, and the pieces just didn’t fit. I wasn’t believing what I wrote, and if I don’t believe it, how can I expect others to? I can’t, you’re exactly right. I had my main characters taking a bus to their next location. A fuckin’ bus. What a lazy move on my part to push the story along. But, it was the only good thing that had come to mind.

I went to start writing today, and I stared at the last paragraph before trying to start a new one. I felt supreme frustration, and instead of punching my computer screen, I held Alt and pressed F4. Closed the fucker right away, and cursed the book. I said, “this shit stain will never get done,” and “fuck this stupid fuckin’ book,” and a whole host of other things. I literally just punched the wall to my left as I wrote this, remembering all the frustrated energy I had stored up. Just now, I slammed my fist on the desk.

I hate frustration. Nothing drives me to the point of no return like frustration. I don’t know how to handle it sometimes, so. Oh fuck this. You don’t wanna hear this shit.

Anyway, back to the matter at hand. I got up to take a shit and rearrange my balls (they’ve been bothering me all fuckin’ day) when inspiration suddenly struck me. I was missing another character. A character that was not only an integral part of the story, but a much needed plot device that would help move things along without cheating the reader. Suddenly, my story found its momentum again.

Fighting writer’s block is a strange thing. It’s like wrestling with something in the dark. It doesn’t feel, smell, or look familiar. All you know is that it’s there and you hate it just as much as it hates you. I picture it as a strange little fucker, laughing and pointing at me, begging me to lash out and strike it. But no matter how many times I try, I can’t hurt it with conventional means.

I’m getting pissed as I type just thinking about that little fuckin’ cunt. Instead, I delete shit. I had six pages of fluffy, reader-insulting mind garbage that I highlighted and deleted from my book. It was like puking up poison and watching it swirl down the toilet; I felt so much better. And the little cunt stopped laughing at me, knowing it was beaten.

So, my story is back on track because I stopped thinking about writing the story, and started thinking about how to move it forward. Writing a novel and moving the story forward are two very different things. Any putz and walk off the street and shove a novel up their ass and sneeze out a shit stained bag of crap on paperback. But it takes a true author (I’m not the only, nor the last one) to move the story along. That’s what works for me. I stop thinking, start acting, and enjoy deleting. And, I’ll have concept art for a new character soon! Yaaaaaay!

How do you deal with writer’s block? Artist’s block? Do you picture it as an entity, or keep it as a metaphor? Speak up motherfuckers, I’m tired of your silence.

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.

Big Update for the New Year

It has been awhile, but it was all worth it.

The holidays…oh boy. You know how those go, so I’m not going to bore any of you with that shit. Instead, I am going to describe the new steps that I have started on Geneslave, and my new book. As you may have deduced, I don’t have a cover for my book, Geneslave. I dabble in art, and my wife suggested that I draw one. I am not a professional artist, but I do like to do abstract shit. So that’s what I am going to do. Also, I am not chickening out on publishing my book. I’ve re-adjusted my strategy.

My wife has good connections. Period. I don’t have shit. Honestly, I’ve never liked networking. I feel as though a business relationship can’t be forced, it must come naturally. Me being skeptical, judgmental, and jaded, I don’t always give a fair chance where a fair chance is due. My wife, however, does. And through he connections and astounding personality, she has some ideas that I may, or may not go with.

I love her cover idea. I am all over that. But she has some other ideas that she wants to pitch to me that I would be very open to. She is…very smart in a way that I can’t understand. That makes her invaluable as a life partner, and in marketing. Anyway, enough about my awesome wife.

The bottom line is I have a habit of getting SO excited about something, I rush it. I looked closely at Geneslave, and I love the piece too much to rush it. I am going to make sure this fuckin’ thing is as perfect as it can get before I put it out on the market. Hopefully, my impatience won’t get the better of me. I haven’t given up, I  haven’t become lax about the blog. I am still here, still writing, and still moving forward. Speaking of which…

I am 40 pages into writing my new book. This is the largest endeavor I have ever undertaken from a writer’s point of view. I have literally fabricated a world out of thin air by changing the one I already live on. Very soon, I will have a SHIT TON of concept art for you to look at, and I will talk more about my creative process and what works for me as a writer.

Don’t think I left. There is no way in Hell that I’m givin’ up now, and neither should you. Are you writing something? Wrote something? Lemmie know, let’s talk a little about it. What how much you reveal, though. I don’t want your ideas getting stolen by some tool lookin’ to make a quick buck.

What I’m Trying To Do

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.