Inspiration through Editing

Creation of story requires an active mind and a steady stream of thought, akin to a dam with a tiny hole at the bottom.

It is difficult to simply pull more content out of your ass. When I force myself to add words to my work, the work? It blows. I catch myself being lazy, using too many short sentences, stupid grammar errors, blah blah blah. The process is enough for me to hide from the piece I am working on, be it poem, novel, short story, name it. At present I am working on a new 99 Cent Novella featuring my two favorite characters, Thas and Gruun. At the present, I am adding more content into the story to beef it up. No, not to pad it for length- actual, real writing.

I’ve been dry.

But that’s okay! And I’ll tellya why. See, I thought writer’s block worked one way and one way only. Your ass sits at the computer/typewriter/notebook and you piss, moan, and pout when the story don’t come out. So, that’s the method I’ve been using forever. Only until recently did I discover a way to still work on your piece and fight back against writer’s block.

Years would pass in between spurts of writing or art for me. Years! I just accepted it as part of the creative process, my creative process, but this is bullshit. I don’t have to accept anything I don’t want to, and by sheer luck alone, I’ve found a loophole. When I used to write, I would complete a piece without even thinking about proofreading/editing until I was complete. Then, I would print it all out on hard copy, proofread, and then edit. Fuck THAT.

As of late instead, I found myself driven to read the pieces I have already completed. Before long, I noticed the unconscious tweaking of the content here and there. At first I spurnned myself, saying that it’s just a minor adjustment and I should wait until I am finished with the piece. That may have worked at one time, but no longer. Eventually, I just said fuck it, and started to edit and proofread all my work before I had finished it, and I stopped printing out my manuscripts (a task I do not miss).

During the editing session, I found myself generating new ideas about where the story would go, and what was needed to move it forward. I also learned where the language was weak, along with countless other weak points. This is helping me shape the story into something I can be proud of. Little did I know that for me, editing generates fresh content in my brain. Why?

My best guess is that maybe editing turns over my ideas inside my head and refreshes them. As I gain more confidence in the finished product, I can write the piece and finish it more quickly, and perhaps produce a result better than my previous method could create.

Hey, your writing process is your own. Everyone had habits and routines, but all I’m trying to say now is don’t get blinded by them. Every once and awhile, try something different, or better yet completely new. You’ll be surprised with how much thinking your brain is capable of.

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Stolen Steel Spine

People have a strange relationship with the world.

Little busy creatures, bustling about. In all types of weather, all types of climates, all types of places. I watch them from afar, always studying. It is not a place of superiority, rather of curiosity. Stewing, I believe, is the term I’m looking for here.

My mind is not free from idea. My projects have slowed. But sometimes the need to write outweighs the want, and vice versa. It is the struggle of both that is so godamn tortuous. The thing I miss the most was spine. A writer’s voice. Mine has dwindled into a pathetic vomit of disjointed entries like this one, or as ambiguous pieces in the abstract. And the kicker is that there is no solid way of knowing whether or not it’s my voice as a writer, or just a load of fresh, steaming bullshit.

I think most of myself is twisted in hypocrisy and guilt. In spite of the light, it gets bent. Bent around experiences, fractured by pain, amplified by joy. But always malleable. It’s this fact that drives on the terrible point, hanging like an old noose at the gallows. Dramatic.

It’s all dramatic. Each emotion, each word I push forward feels like shit flavored molasses. I don’t have the will to write now. Not forever, mind you. But the strength of mind writing takes (for me) fails me. Fuck this entry, and fuck this day.

Lost with a Compass

Days roll on by and the guilt of stagnation hangs with the meat until there is a call for action.

Completion of tasks, both great and small, go checked off until the lists are calm, until the day makes sense again. Wandering-

There is a stark honesty about apathy and sloth. They imply peace, but are often abused. The mind is a weak thing that must be cradled by willpower and bone, or it will break. Each stone pillar wears away in the desert sand until all is dust, slow but sure.

Writing has been hard. Mostly these types of entries flow because there is no point to them. They have no definitive purpose, nor is their journey valid or useful. Creating ideas in the brain that won’t translate -or can’t- into creation itself. There’s no more will to write anymore and there must be a rally within to find the spark once more. It feels forced and arbitrary. Wouldn’t read the words pushed out like a smeared shit.

Mostly the violence sticks out. Violence in the stories, especially the killing and dealing with loss and guilt. Envy. Stick to what is comfortable and profitable, but can there be a time when comfort is a liability opposed to an asset? Of fuckin’ course.

Setbacks at a later age are harder to cope with as responsibilities, anxieties, worries, and doubt build up inside an adult brain. Not enough space to cope. So it’ll get fixated. This one is fixed on violence.

Why the violence? Why the need for blood? Is there a hurt inside that is invisible to the world and its victim? Why such blind anger? Why the need to spit pain in all directions?

Forests sometimes have a path. Deep ones, ones that have been around for decades; tempt beauty off trail, but there is no solace or safety where there is no vision. Following a compass so the path is always known is not foolproof. Many, many times the forest will swallow travellers. Some find the path once more and travel to the intended destination, wiser for the experience as a whole. All too often, the direction, goal, and destination is lost or discarded, and there are mass graves of intention and loathing that conceal an endless supply of ignorant bodies.

Wander the woods, but keep an eye on the path. Death, metaphorical and tangible, comes in many forms and feelings.

Mind the deadfall.

I’m being a Shitty Writer.

Alright ladies and gentlemen, listen the fuck up please.

These last few sample chapters I’ve been posting have been utter shit- just…fuckin’ diarrhea, fresh from my ass, onto my keyboard, through my screen, and directly into your eyes and I am sorry. So, what Im gonna do. Is overhaul each and every single chapter I’ve posted on this website (Except for Warrior Shaman. it needs to be edited, sure. But I KNOW I nailed that shit to the fuckin’ WALL YO) until awesome and then re-post them one by one, whether you like it or not.

I am sorry for my shitty work. I forgot that it is very easy to become those shit spewing, self centered asshole writers I am always slamming on. And THAT. Is not something I ever want to become. Never.

Peace bitches YEAH   8======D

MODERN WARFARE, YEAH

Writing and the Mind- Getting Back on Track

Finding the strength to write is like gripping sand.

Dragging myself out of the brine of complacency, I have lied to myself as to where I need to be, and what I need to do. The mind is a terrible thing. Not to waste, but a terrible thing. I have imagined and seen things in my mind’s eye that have irrevocably changed how I think. By a little bit. Every day. Completely changing, over and over again. That’s how all minds work. Not just mine. I’m not unique there.

I’ve been writing again. Who knows why the flow slows? Who knows why my stomach drops when I think about slamming down a few more words outta a keyboard? I don’t know. And I’ve spent too much time in my life trying to figure out a final reason, a final truth. It might as well be a holy grail for Christsake. Unattainable. Impossible. Unreachable. The mind is too complex for me, or for anyone else to fully understand.

I’ve discovered that forcing myself to write just a little bit begins the flow again. I haven’t been able to write for hours in a long time, but I can feel the inspiration coming. It happens like this every time I write a novel; I reach a point where I’m goin’ through the motions, and then I come back full force. I can feel it. It’s there. As for drawing and art, there isn’t much left now. Concept art for Blestemul I mean. In case you couldn’t tell, I’ve been clutching and clawing for exposure through posting pictures. Simply because the content of my blog has been shit lately.

Time to get back on track. I’ve written over 200 pages in this new book, and I’ll I’ve been doing is pissin’ and moanin’ about how hard writing is when I should be doing the thing I created this fuckin’ blog for. So here we go.

As of right now, I’ve been trying to develop character connections through difficult experiences and trust loops. Along with this, I’ve been changing my main character, twisting him into something the reader might not like. But I always have a plan when it comes to something like this. I won’t disappoint.

As for the beginning of the novel, it starts out simply enough. An alcoholic, washed-up “soldier” eeks out a living on some godforsaken shit hill town when an opportunity to redeem himself in the eyes of himself presents itself. Alistar, the main character, has given himself up to the demon, Blestemul, his symbiotic demon-pistol. Stuck inside his head, the demon goads, supports, and torments him as he strikes back at those who have held him down, and are continuing to destroy other peoples’ lives in plain view, under the guise of innocent righteousness.

I also tried to break stereotypes in this book. I created races that seem more bestial, but I developed them like any other “human” character. They have personalities, they wear clothes, cologne, they have opinions, jokes, likes, dislikes, loss and gain. It shows that a good person is a good person, and one can transcend any ignorance with a little effort.

Right now, one friend of Alistar’s, Kone, is missing. One recovered after a traumatic event that she (Jala) shared with AListar, and Spek is now looking for Kone inside of a primordial and very dangerous swamp. They are close to reaching the location of their main objective, and then the book should take off with aggression and grace.

That’s where I am. Now you know, and now I’ve said it. Wrote it. And I feel better. I’m giving you the writing you deserve to read. Am I god’s gift to the written word? NO. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to try. Thanks for reading and sticking with my fury. I won’t disappoint you. I promise.

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?

Destiny

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.