For my Writing Friends
I stand now; I stand a man with no future as of yet, twiddled by his past and troubled by his condition but still I stand toe to toe – nose to nose with this epic-fail named my life. Yes it may have a detrimental state on my being but in life’s chess game I can hold all of its weight because they call me Alexander the Great Writer.
I am different writer from all of you, which inevitably makes me stand away from the pack, I’m a lone wolf, you hunt your prey, I am more of a devilish creature; I wait for my food to come to me. Decipher that how you will. But I have watched and seen so many of a’writer creep up to a literary agent with a piece of work or a manuscript, shaking with so much possibility for a publication or perhaps a good phrase. But —
“Excuse me; this is my manuscript, its call Dead on The Water. It’s a psych-thriller novel. Everyone who reads it says it is awesome. Could you give it a read, please?” The writer stammers as he shudders in his boots.
“Sure thing, it will be the first thing I will do right after I do this other thing I have to do.” The clips of the high-heels simmer away through the double doors of the agency.
And what a shock! Nothing comes to pass.
But I devised a plan. One that will be more treacherous and longwinded than your way, I will write a blog! Write everything I can, whenever I can. Gain views upon my work through the blog and social networks. And in time the RIGHT-EYES will stumble upon my words. – The idea doesn’t seem that great when I write it down like that, but if I do my own thing I should get to where I am going through gaining attention. Oh yeah, for all you wannabe writers. A blog can be used as a portfolio for your work, so anyone wanting to know what you write like before contacting you, can view it, so write your best pieces. It’s a lot like putting on your party-dress and attending a ball, you want to be the best piece of polished writing-skirt at that place, so you get lucky and go home for the best damn night of your life. I think I got carried away with that part, I’m back now.
Now my talent or skill; to me it resembles a ship on the ocean, it could be calm and controlled on the water but like the weather, within an instant it can turn harsh, deadly and challenging and then there’s days of waves of poetry; but you have to look out for them.
These words I give birth to can conquer all forever, whatever the weather whether I wither or whether I turn killer and send this world into global terror, I shall. Whether I use poetic stories or general stories to get my emotion pen across, I will, by any means necessary. I may be a female pin-up centrefold and my words may be censored gold, but the reality is my reality is something I can never truly hold, my job sucks and my bed is never cold, fact.
But I write everything and when I say everything, I write everything on my mind at the time I am thinking about writing. But in a way that is educational for other writers due to my ability to play with the words. Also in diary fashion so people just wanting to pop in and check out if other people are having bad days just like them. And then you have my dark side that gravitationally yanks people in to show my mental illness and how I write about it, along with the why strapped to it and the ferocious way I chuck words around that they could never even muster to think about using.
Take away this hurt, please. It feels as if my brains will flower-blossom from beneath my skull, splitting my life into death. I am crumpled on the floor taking this beating from myself because I must; squish my eyes shut so no tears are spilt.
These med-kits have no instant direct-hit on these chugging headaches.
You see I write everything I see. I could be watching TV and everything the characters on-screen are acting I am writing EVERYTHING that I see. –
Davis stretches through the doorway, gun handle strangled, index finger at the ready to twitch. His eyes mean business with his bad acting; but the bad guy is going down. The shadow of a silhouette passes the kitchen door; Davis barely caught it in his peripheral vision.
So on and so forth. Hey, you can always watch what I was writing.
But it is a great way to further your talent. Watch something and rhyme off quickly and efficiently, so when it comes to tackling you work, it’s not only a great piece of writing it’s also a piece of pi$$ to do it.
Keep those pens busy!
Alex – The great writer, it’s got a cool ring to it.
Please read it all, it will make sense at the end – Thank you.
Writing is my religion, paper is my temple; now kneel before my God, pen! Your words are senseless, copy – copy – copy – copy. The rules of this writing game, is to take what others have done and rewrite it; what idea is your own though?
Now I am one of those writers, afraid to approach a Publishing House or a Literary Agency because I am fearful of what others will think about my work. I have thoughts pressing against my brow most days, so this blog is a lifeline to the writing world for me. I don’t consider my writing to be good, great or phenomenal, but how I see it is my words do their job, there are thousands of writers out there, with fancy educations and warped minds better than mine who deserve it more than me, so I don’t mind waiting a couple of decades.
I have read so much and in doing so have character built myself; I know who I am now. Yes, I am a little fuzzy on the details and road journey, but I am here with a pen or keyboard, whatever writing tool is available. But I know one thing, I have my own mind!! I do not see Vampires falling in love with humans and thinking, I can have a better take on this story; I MUST WRITE IT AND IT SHALL BE BETTER!! That’s a Stephanie Myers thing, she made that bigger than most orgy stories and it has gone down in history. A clever lady she is, tapping into a market and going for gold. Well done, little Miss!
See for me, I like The Minds Narrative, for example…
“Should I write now? Not too sure Alex, I mean you haven’t slept in thirty-six hours, dawg. Get some shut-eye and blast back on that page, dude. I care about you man, don’t want to see you wander off away back onto the darkland. Write it and they shall come!! You’re a good guy; show them later what’s really inside of your heart. Now get to bed, you ugly fool.”
Yes, I talk to myself in my head and it is very therapeutic to know I am on my own wave length. But I am getting off topic. Let’s get back to the writing aspect.
If you want to be taken serious, you are going to have to amaze the world. Show them something different. But it has to RELATE to people’s lives.
Whether it is dark and emo = Twilight
Sassy and sexy = Any Jackie Collins novel
And so on and so forth. You need your niche! Find it and utilize it to the fullest extent of you.
See mine is dark humour wrapped in a cocoon of pain with a silver lining showing it face every once in a while. My niche.
But I am not saying everyone who types or write is a terrible writer; know where your writing wants to go. If you want the big writing contract (Like most of us do.) Write for it. If you just want to write for general purpose, to ease stress or bare a little piece of your soul, then show it. But know where you want to go.
PUT IN THE WORK NOW AND LIFE WILL BE LESS LIKE WORK!!!
Some days I don’t even know what I am doing, should I be giving up this pursuit of a lit agent? I mean I have the tools and ideas, but I have the urging feeling when I think about doing it, yelling DON’T DO IT, STEP AWAY FROM THE SEND BUTTON!!!! And I don’t, I scurry back off into my corner to scribble all the while people could be taking my dreams.
I AM SUCH A HYPOCRITE!!!
I won’t even follow my own writing advice.
I am lost, lost in a world full of everyone else. But to be honest, I can write a good game, but some days I am not even playing; hence the blog a broken writer.
I’m not sure what I am doing here, I write and people tell me my work is wonderful or awful, I don’t mind but I am just think about my end game, the final trick I will magically reveal.
I’m just babbling now!
I think my blog is broken, I do wish for more views on my wordpress blog but I get I can’t have it all. I can have the skill but no eyes to read it. And if that is my niche in the writing industry for me, I guess I will have to take it.
And another thing, I am getting weird emails from people who are being really abusive; friends just say is jealousy. But these online bullies might be right; I might be a poop sack or deserves theirs pens jamming in my breathing tube. (It’s called a windpipe, my friend; if you had picked up a book you would have known that.) And some other emails are people saying I have stolen their thunder or some S*&t like that. If I have I am sorry!!!
I’m not a bad guy, only confused about this whole writing life and I would like to strive for more, but that slapped hand keeps brushing on by. I did have a dream the other night, where I did get a Literary Agent and she was so fine. Hey, maybe I could write about that???
But I would like to state that my blog has almost reached that glorious number of 100TH POST!!! WHOOP WHOOP!!!! (Man, there are a lot of exclamation marks in this blog post!)
And I couldn’t have done it without you peeps. Some of you have read my work; THANKS GUYS! And some have just clicked the like button, thanks, I think!
So today I am going to Watch season 1 and 2 of New Girl, because this show is fantastic and I am kind of addicted to it. I know I am a guy, I have girly TV fetish, get over yourselves.
If you have read this, I usually know; because you comment about my work and all my goofy wording. So have a nice day!
Keep that pen busy or just work towards your goals in life.
Smell the roses too. It’s good to just stop from the hustle of life.
I’ve been your rambling writer.
I’m a walking nightmare, my hands around my own throat, can’t shake awake! I’m dying to write dynamic dynamite; writing is my form of dialysis, I need all the badness out. A mental state of emergence has now been issued to you, personally. This is no jocularity; I mean this all the way down to my tormented soul. I’m rattling and shaking, I’m not afraid; you will twig-on when I snap. I’m digging up my own past, shovel in hand; I need answers and resolve some unfinished business, so you can lollop around my questions but remember this is my job, I write like a boss.
Misanthropy over here! So you’re either with me or against me, I’m going to war with humankind. I swindle and hustle my way out from my psychiatrist meetings; they label my big-toe as sane and packed me back to the free-world I am coming to conquer. If you were smarter you would have caught me out. I bring no attention to my shell, I blend in, disappear and robot-dance my way into the crowd, my circuits have shorted but this has made me a bigger man. If you knew my story, you would burn my book.
I’m heat-seeking for inner-peace,
But before I be seated,
These are my proposed proceedings,
I’m pulling out all my deep seeded beliefs,
A concocted mix of special needs, my inner-beast and deceit,
These are the things which live deep in me.
I am a soldier of the apocalypse,
Holding hostage every major metropolis,
If you can’t topple this, copy this,
Looking for my mind,
As I look for a lost wish.
I’m not a writer; I am the reaper of words,
My life is on an egg-timer,
What can be worse than being the worst?
Strand by strand,
I stand before you less than half the man,
I’m a problem they buried,
Now it’s time to raise hell,
The feeling of lost and deserted,
“This is what you deserve, kid.”
I cut myself to excel the bad blood,
It’s all fun in Hell,
Fall down this wonder-well,
Hurry-up before it gets backed up.
I’ve lost my mind,
A search and rescue team,
They can’t find me,
Yeah, laugh it up!
Back when I was fighting for life,
It was frightening,
My personal war of Clash of the Titans.
It’s time to unbind the blind,
And just enjoy the ride.
I’m not coming down from this high, until I am grounded and surrounded by stars. An operated opened sternum sense of a nonsensical life, I have. My real name is Addict, I pour a bowl of Pill-pops, add my milk or vodka-shots and spoon my mouth what it needs. No more secrets, I am an opened book… I need help, I think. I have isolated all I love with my ice-cold heart. I am living a double life and people are fatigued trying to figure me out. How do I join the living again?
Welcome once again to my ribaldry! Sanctimoniously I dribble around what I truly need to deliver, but effusively I fumble my falsehood. I am a walking, writing blob of human but with a side dollop of insane lollop; you can be just like me. Still impecunious, but that is okay, one day I will dream and wake to a happy ever after. Perhaps I am impervious to a happier time? What I truly am in most eyes is an indemnifying writing object. I have a storm in my heart and love within my eyes; can’t I just touch the tip? Insatiable! I’m I accurately jejune to you?
For My True Love…
There was an accident; I just got the phone call. I run and I run and run past my lungs threshold, she is all I care about. Bypassing people’s thoughts as I sprint to her in the middle of the road, stopping traffic in its footsteps. The rain is against me, stings and pinpricks on my skin, the raindrops cover my tears as it washes away my hurt. Unnoticed to the beeps, finger gestures and vulgar language, none of that matters, only her. I live for her and I said I would die for her, will it come to either? Please, Lord, do not take her… She has saved me over and over again. I can hear the sirens; they are like gunshots to my ears, my heartbeats circulates my body unknowing in which way to turn, I can feel it in every limb that moves towards her, each step is one more closer.
I try not to think into what has happened, but my heart is tangled up within my imagination. Laid crippled and knotted, faceless and memory-less of us or vehicle impaled, taken by someone’s concentration. I can finally see the flashing lights and emergency personnel. I stop my raging feet and bring myself to the walk of concern, my fingers keep grip to the phone that had imprinted this thought upon me.
The police are not letting anyone have their eyes nightmare clenched; I cannot see anything as an ambulance is blocking mine and her fate. I climb over a police cars bonnet, vigilant to their sight, just to gain a look. I do not want to miss you, it took me years to find and keep what we have. A car lies on its side, broken and no longer road worthy; its underneath faces my way, paramedics kneel around the roof, running back and forth from the ambulance to get supplies. I walk into the unknown with a heavy tears and heart with a quivering lip. She is pinned under the car, the pain emulates from her in screams.
I stand unmoved, what do I do? She sees me finally, within that first second no time passed.
She raises her shaking arm, holding out her hand for me. I rush over and take hold of her invitation. It is hard for her to breathe, taking big gulps of whatever air she can take in. I brush her hair to the side, just so I can get to see my love. We both share in the moment a smile, no words, unable to speak; the shock must have hit us both. Just hold on to me. She turns her head away from me; she does not want to look at me… Have I done something wrong? Is she mad at herself because of this situation? I take my wet index finger and place it around her chin and turn her back to me to let her know I am here forever with her. She gives me that look, the one I wake to every morning. I bow down and kiss her for aslong as possible. A hand on my shoulder, a police officer picks me up and tries to usher me away from my destiny. I rip and thrash, all I want is to be with her.
She screams I can feel it in the pit of my stomach; this is not a scream for me but a personal one. The pain must be gnawing its way through her. No one is doing anything, no one. The police stop their job, the paramedics take over my position. I see through a slight opening between two medics her face, she needs me, more now than ever. If she is mine, this is my test. I slip away from the policeman’s hold to the car, one final glance; I squat down and reach my fingers under the car. It will not take her from me; I begin to pull up with all my strength, bear my teeth. I want to see her again, raise our children together, kiss her before I go to work, spend another valentines day with her, put a padlock on her finger, not visit a grave stone every year, stare out my window for days, cry myself to sleep, have to move on to second best, No… never.
I let out an almighty roar that would bring a battlefield full of one hundred thousand solders to pain I will feel if I lose her. I will stand up, I will and I will take this pain from her, even if that means cursing it upon me. I exhale all of my air, the car begins to lift. I must take this throbbing within my arms for her sake. I straighten my legs and back, she is my one, keep elevating, the car is off the ground leveled with my chest. I turn my head, my neck is stiff. The medics pull her from the wreckage and are able to attach and inject the proper equipment and medicines.
Your love makes me stronger, the man I am, more than I was, this is for you. I jump back from the death-dealing machine; it falls with more of its shell being broken.
I turn with a smile, her eyes have closed, no movement. They put her on a stretcher and load her onto another bed and head for the closed ambulance, the doors are wide opened they are trying to make her breath, pressing down on her chest five at a time then breathing the air back into her.
They stop, unable to do more. No… I will not have that, you cannot just give up on her because she is unresponsive, she usually acts that way it is a trick she likes to play. The world has stopped completely, I run over to the ambulance and climb in, they try to fight me off, but I am not that easy to stop in my tracks for something I want, ask her. I push them out of my way and bend down and pick up her head and lay my lips to hers.
The ambulance begins to quake, medical objects falls from their place, the doors begins to throw open and close again, there is a light that could outshine the suns rays. Her eyes shoot open as she takes her first gasp of air and another until she is settled and coherent. She smile at me that way again, I mirror her back as she pulls me into another kiss, this must be a thank you but in true fact it is me who should be thanking you, my love.
The Mother – Based on True Events
This story is very close to my heart, it is a story roughly based on my Mother’s life, I have changed the names and certain aspects of the story. I hope you see her vision. And can I just say, any woman out there how is suffering from domestic violence and would like help, do not hesitate to get help, there are people out there for you and if you would like to talk, I am here. Don’t be alone in your fight, we are here for you; don’t suffer in silence.
Please like and share.
She cowers in the corner, her limbs have been possessed by the jitters of fear; holding on to her swollen cheekbone as she sniffles up the sobs. The children John, Lori and Stephen were asleep, school in the morning, which she had to get up for; another ball to juggle. She knew she would have to explain to someone in the playground about the cuts and bruises she could not make-up over or hide. How else can you say the best father, friend and son in the world, has taken his controlled anger out on the love of his life? I can’t…
His shadow from the middle of the living room grimly overshadows her. She doesn’t move a muscle so he wouldn’t use his again. Looking at his art work he stands analysing every angle and shade of red, chomping on a variety of meats sandwich.
“Are you gonna’ get up or are you gonna’ sit there like a petulant child all night? I barely even touched you…” He grunts over a mouthful of food. Her eyes glued to his shoes, she will see him move before the next attack.
“So you’re not talking to me now? I said I was sorry, didn’t I?” The monster grumbles. She slowly shakes her eyes to reveal her eyes to him. “Listen, I gotta’ get to work; we’ll talk about this later. I love you baby.” He walks over and kisses her on her scruff driven arid hair. He walks out the room; the rustle of a coat wafts from the hallway, the door opens and closes softly.
Peace at last. She extends her shivering legs and walks over to her dressing-mirror. She sits in front of the mirror brushing her hair; each streak was prolonged and emotionless. She places her brush beside her makeup bag which rested on her table. She can’t look at her reflection due to the black eye from her, through sickness and health husband. He recently lost his mother and began drinking heavily; every movement within a moment was classed as offensive which she paid with, in damage. She wipes away the tear from her eye with the ball of her hand, then reaches in her black leather bag and retrieves an ID pass for a Mentally disability hospital, Sandie Moore is printed in black bold letters underneath her photo.
The moon shimmers in through the window and reflects from her ID to her eye’s, for a brief second the warmth from the light rests her soul and rejuvenates her, but the reality from her disfigurement brings her to the truth of life. She Inhales the air from her broken home and exhales the screams of her tortured insides. Sandie exits her bedroom and heads swiftly and quietly down the dimly lit hallway, checking each of her beautiful children has kept in their slumber and didn’t wake to the scream.
Her house was unkempt, never unclean. Sitting on the toy clustered couch she stares into the blackness of the corner chasms, trying her hardest to find sanctuary in her madness.
“Sandie, you have to take a stand. Your kids are growing up so fast and you cannot allow them being brought up in this house. If you leave him now, wake up the little’uns and bolt for safety you’d be doing the right thing. He’s not a bad father, only a bad husband. I know people will judge your accusation about your actions but you have to stay strong, this is your life and you will not fall further into pain. You’ve already made up your mind, Sand’. You still have you job and family, yes, at first will be hard to get on your feet and hold everything together but you must. He’ll come for us, he’ll come for you blood; but to ensure your children never witness this on any level, it is a sacrifice you must make. Now get up, get what you need and disappear before morning. Holding in your cries, girl, you’ve shed enough for him.”
She stands and suppresses her demons and doubts and walks into her children’s bedroom, gently shaking Stephen, he was the less likely to cry and make to loud of a noise.
“C’mon, get up, son…” She stands there.
“Where we going, Mam?” Rubbing his eyes opened “We’re going to stay with your uncle tonight, wake up the other two will ya’. I need you to do as I say and be strong and whatever happens after tonight just know, I love you all.” She stands a step backwards.
“Okay Mam, I love you too.”
I wrote this letter on another blog of mine back in 2012. It’s been ten years and now I have two Children I notice my motivations haven’t budged all that much.
Here’s the letter…
Hey kids, this Dad.
This is a letter to my future children; a small light upon my all darkness.
I want to tell you the story of my life before you were even born, so you know what I was like around the age you are now. First off, dad was a mental patient; the worst time of my life, I almost lost myself which could have reflected on you never being born. But I want you to know, you are my legacy! You will help our blood carry-on, as well as our family name “Kennedy” We have a creative gene within our family, if you do not have it, your children will.
But Dad was a player at one point in his life, he loved the ladies, yes I did. I was never this way inclined before, I couldn’t talk to women before, I missed that chunk of my life when I was mentally ill but I caught up and overtook all those that believe they could talk and dazzle the ladies. And I have loved some stunning women; some hurt me and some I left with the ache. But every one of them I did love. I have my feelings in the right place now and have tried to build bridges.
Now my writings, here we go, my words are all I have; they were all I really had. I write to make sure that when sunlight finally does blush upon your skin, you will not be born into poverty like me and my brothers & sisters were. I want you to know what life is, I don’t want you to be a spoilt brat like some children I see on movies and TV shows. I want you to work for things so you know about self-respect.
Now your Grandma, my mother, is the strongest person I know. She is my evils kryptonite, she backs it away with logic and riddles, the doctors stuck to a script and it didn’t work for me, but she saved my life. She has been through her own wars, which I can see in her eyes. Look after her; we don’t have many people like that on this planet. People are too hectic in nature; no one smells the roses anymore, unless their I-Phone 5 can squirt smells under their noses.
Now please don’t judge me through my writings, it’s my process to keep the voices and urges at bay. But I know I will be proud of you, I will write the most amazing things this world will ever imagine so that you can have the proper upbringing. I will not stop. Yes, I have a dream and there are certain things I would like, but I must work and fight for what I want; you must do the same.
I am not sure exactly sure why I am writing this, but this is just in case there is an accident and I am no longer Earth bound or I have lost it completely and there is no cure for my madness; if that is the case, do not come and visit me, I do not wish for you to see me in that state.
But I will continue to write for you, even if I die, I will send you secret scrolls from Heaven. But I will continue to write, continue to search for a literary agent and work for a life that will benefit you.
I will love you forever.