Of Afraid and Fear

"Don't be afraid."

Those were her only words before I walked through the door. The air was tense and the lighting just above pitchblack. Somewhere deep inside I heard rattling. The sound of terrible things with secret shapes. The imagination was their own limitation, and mine ran wild She told me not to be afraid.

Was she fucking kidding? If there was any reason to feel brave, it had to be the sword at my side. The weight was solid, reassuring, a reminder that the darkness was as light as air. I was made of stouter stuff than nightmares.

And if I wasn't, the sword certainly was.

Fuck, I got this update in under the wire, didn't I? Sorry about that! Work, life, and writing have been busy. I'm up to 45,000 on the second book, though, and waiting to hear from agents. A friend or two have taken a pass at the book, as well, reaffirming my self-esteem.

Apparently the book doesn't suck. Now the second one... that's still up in the air.

It's weird. You write one good book, and you're afraid. What if the second sucks? What if you've lost that particular bit of magic? What if you only had it in you to create one good story, and that was it? I think that's the writer's biggest fear. I'll probably hold on to that with every novel I happen to write. If nothing else, it'll keep me sharp.

After all, fear is one hell of a motivator, folks.

Lucky Day

I'm lucky.

Usually I'd tell you the opposite. A black cloud has followed me most of my life. I am not lucky because I'm wealthy, or wise, or had an easy life. Literally none of those are true. Just take a look at my back account, poor life choices, and emotional scars. No, nein, nope. I've been extremely unlucky when it comes to those things. What I'm talking about is writing, my passion, my dream, that little hope inside that's taken up inside my chest.

I seem to almost be there. I've got several agents looking over my stuff, seemingly pretty interested in it. Sure, this is the first step before many more. I have more editing to do, they need to sell it to editors, there's contract negotiations, and of course subsequent books before I can finally make this a career.

But dammit, dammit, I've read about excellent writers who took ten, twenty years to achieve the same I have. Me, I'm on year two, and I'm at this stage. It's not talent, intelligence, or anything else that's gotten me here. It's just luck.

And for once, I'm happy to have it.

Who Are You?

She was tough.

Some of it was forged, true, gained from that carpshoot known as experience. The rest was all natural. There was an inner strength in the girl that wasn't normal in the modern world. It wasn't what you found in the day-to-day, but rather the things epics and poems were made of. She was a modern day Theseus, seizing the bull by the horns and never letting go.

Aleksandra was tough, and one day the world would be thankful for it.

The above is what I wrote for a friend. It was an exercise in what I thought about her, painting a rather accurate depiction, if I do say so myself. So let's try something here, a little experiment if you will!

Leave a post. It can be one word or a million, but it simply has to be there. Leave it, along with your name, and I'll respond with a description about you. Maybe you'll like it, perhaps you'll hate it, but it'll be entirely colored from my perspective. If you're like me, you like having something written about yourself. If you're not like me, well, get off your goddamned high horse.

Seriously. Fucker.

Of course, it might help if I know who you are to begin with. If you're an unknown, well, I can't promise the write-up that I'll leave.

Rafael Ink

I realized in seventh grade that I'd never be human.

Carl Vonderberg had stepped forward, demanding lunch money. Carl had never been especially smart, so he had waited until we had bought our lunches to demand our money. Imagine his rage when he realized there wasn't a penny between us. He postured, he threatened, smearing spaghetti into shirts and our noses in shit. The other children bowed their heads.

I raised mine. I had spent all my life being a good little boy. My mother had coached me extensively, from actions to reactions, a list of particulars that she constantly revised. She was the trainer, I was the beast, and it was her job to keep me at bay. I could never tell whether her eyes were filled with love or fear.

Carl's pig eyes were definitely filled with fear. The fork that had been in my hand was now in his, coating his fat fingers in blood. He opened his mouth and howled.

I didn't give him time for much else. My fist rocketed into his jaw, and then I was on him. A jab, a punch, every blow strengthening my advantage while driving him into the floor. I felt hands wrap around my arms, pulling me up, jerking me to stand. I tried to return to the fight, but it was no use.

So I looked around.

There were no cheers for the hero. No laughter, no clapping, nothing but a terrible silence. They weren't impressed by me, but terrified of me. It's then that I understood what I was. He was dumb and mean, but I was smart and cruel. He would punch, while I would tear. He would bruise, while I would break.

I was a monster more terrible than Carl could ever be. It all made such perfect sense. I still don't know why it took me so long to realize it. A wolf never imagines it's a sheep, so why did I include myself as one of the bleating masses? Maybe that moment of crystal clarity should have left me horrified, even sad.

Instead, I felt elated. I had found my true purpose.

I was a hunter amongst so much prey.


Some good news on the agent fronts, guys. I've got a tentative email or two with just enough interest to leave me excited. Now if it can blossom into something more, hell, you'll see me dancing and singing in the streets. I don't know if I ever felt like I'd finally get to this point.

Now that I'm almost (maybe) there, it feels incredible. There'll be a lot of long waiting ahead, scary silence, and frustrations, I'm sure. But there's a lot of hope there, too.

Fingers crossed.

This story was inspired by my friend Trish. She told me to tell me to tell her a story of Rafael Ink, a roleplaying character that she gave me some years ago. I gave her a brief little blurb and she asked, "Psshaaw, issat it?"

Apparently it wasn't.

Of Hope and Apocalypse Now

Alright. I don't want to scare you. I don't want to startle you. I don't want to turn your motherfuckin' world upside down. But get ready to hear this. It's the straight dope, the real talk, that somethin' somethin' that opens our ears and unlocks our hearts. It's called the truth, and for once?

It's fantastic.

I have not one, not two, not three, but four, read 'em, four literary agents currently looking at my book. Three full requests and one partial, just the right mixture to make a fella feel welcome. It feels nice. It feels good.

I feel like the future is promising.

Now if one of them actually wants to snatch me up? That would be even better. Any takers? Guys? ... Guys?

Are you still there?

In other news, I'm kind of pumped to be writing tomorrow. It's been seven days of work, and daddy's been jonesing for his fix. I'm at an interesting section of the story, so I feel like I should be able to keep the action up. Of course, writing is never without its problems. You'll see something, and you'll want so bad to fix it, but if you do, well, you're just a little like fucked. You've got charlie coming out of the jungle, and you can't stop, you won't stop, because the whole platoon's dead if you do.

So you leave that man behind. He's screaming, stretching out a hand, begging for a smoke, a bullet, anything but to be left behind. Of course you harden your heart and keep hoofin' it through the shit, but deep down you're thinking only one thing: You're coming back, you swear to God you're not leaving him in that humid hellhole forever. You'll return for Martinez (or Tex, or Louie).

Of course, it'll be to put a bullet in his head, but whatever.

Merciful God, Whhhyyyy!

Man, it's a good morning.

*sips some tea, opens his paper-- spittakes at the contents!*

Oh no! I never thought this day would come! *turns headline to the reader!*

Kelly Griffith Enters Blogging Scene! Unleashes Torment Upon Countless Billions!

So, story time lads and lassies! Years ago I met this girl. By all marks and identifiers she was a normal girl, if slightly sadistic for her sex. Cue puberty, university, and a half-decade in the Outback, and something utterly vile was formed! A girl who could write without practice, and who had an imagination that made mine pale in comparison!

Seriously, I was totally jelly! *awkward gangsign!* *crosses arms, lookin' thug lyfe*

Kelly Griffith is one of my oldest friends, and immensely respected as a writer. She's able to do things with words that leave me confused, jealous, and just a little irritated at her for being able to weave. She's also the chick that got me into writing. She posed one simple question to me, and a lifetime passion resulted from it.

I'm not just asking you to give her site a check. I'm begging you to. This girl's going to go somewhere, and you definitely want to watch her get there. So won't you guys stand with me and watch a star rise?

Kelly, you're gonna shine bright.

http://whatthingsihavefound.blogspot.com.au/

Black Cloud

I'll admit it.

I'm scared.

I'm scared none of my dreams will come true. I'm scared that no matter how hard I write, no matter how good I get, all I'll get is nowhere. I've had a long string of bad luck in a short life. Disasters, heartbreaks, and accusations have just been the norm, punctuated by moments of joy or excitement. Maybe it's the other way around, honestly. This could be drama forged out of reflection, the desperation of a view moments coloring an entire lifetime. Maybe I've had an ultimately good life, punctuated with a few terrible moments. 

The thought doesn't dispel the idea of this invisible cloud hanging over me.

People say that you should practice your art only for the sake of it. That way the material is better, and you're happier for it. It's honestly sound advice. It makes sense. If you pursue anything else, then you're likely to drive yourself mad.

It's advice you can't follow when you follow the dredge of the nine to five. It's advice that you can't accept when you want to become something more than you are. It's something you simply can't tolerate when you want to make your mark on history and the world. You see your heroes riding to glory, and you want desperately to be among their number. Maybe others won't make it, but you have to. You're the hero of your narrative, and the hero always succeeds.

Except life has taught me differently. We're not the main characters, perhaps not even secondary, but part of a grand narrative that moves on with or without us. Success is hard, and failure comes so much more easily. Maybe this book will fail, and the next one, and the next ten to boot. I'll love the art, but in time I will come to hate myself. It's not writing that betrayed me, that beacon that made me better, but ultimately myself, that fallible person and the unlucky lot he was born into. That thought is terrible to behold.

It scares me.