How We All Write

I am taking that you have clicked on my blog link or you have stumbled upon here by complete accident, or because you are here because you love words like I do. I see words in complete different way from the layman writer who sees what everyone else see, but I take all forms of writing in to consideration before I put fingertips to keyboard. But it’s a great way to stretch my writers-legs. Let’s see if we write similar, if not I would love to see what you scribble.  Read this and give it a like and come follow me, there is plenty more to read.

Microsoft Word

Microsoft Word (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

How We All Write

He was a broken writer, out of luck, bedraggled in and out of the tangles of life. His Ralph Lauren hoodie pulled over his head and his Amilo laptop opened and set to the blink of the pages cursors starting line, he stares into the abyss of the whiteness of the Microsoft Word Document, snarling with his eyes wishing for something to be produced by his unmanned thinking. The four walls he is surrounded by falls away to a disintegrated texture of nonexistence, his mother ironing clothes in the middle of the cluttered living room slips to blurry, passed the lines of his focus and distaste of his own writing talent.

“C’mon you stupid piece of paper, help me, help me write something, you douche.”

The young man bangs on the buttons of his laptop and writes Monsters create fear, fear creates nightmares and nightmares create more monsters. He sits back and basks in the idea of perhaps an influential but horrific piece of writing the whole world can remember on his WordPress.com blog.

“Where are my words?? I should give up this writing lark, mom; I’m not getting anywhere and I have no clue if people are actually getting to my website and like it.” He prays for hope that may rest behind his mother’s mindset.

“Well I know for a fact that all great writers have that exact same sentiment, they over critique their own work and believe that they are going nowhere with their words and don’t believe they are… How you kids say, awesome enough? Anyway, keep going, I believe in you, I do put up with you clicking the keys on your computer in your little trying to create something, don’t think about it too much, just go with where your head is at and I’m sure the words will find you.” Urging the confidence through her speech, I analyse all she has to say and construct it into a push into the colourlessness of the first page.

Write, Read & Die

Sometimes in life you have to fight, those are the rules and this is my time to hold my fists up. Can you hear that? The voices are laughing at me behind my back; it’s surprising you cannot heed their hysterical cackles. I pretend I hear nothing as I try to focus on the dialogue of this movie. It’s not about how much I can build; it’s about how much this world can build upon me until I crumble at the knees. Skyscrapers are mere scraps of paper, monumental mountains are minuscule mites. Life is a game show, we all need to observe and learn from the losers to become winners. The best self-help is the hand you show to help yourself to life.

Lend me your eyes and I shall whisk you away with the wish of my magic pen to a far away parallel world adjacent to the one you stomp upon now. Welcome to Hell friend, this is where I live; wipe your feet before you leave. My life is cookbook, I’ve found the perfect recipe for disaster, become a fiction writer to shook shock this world into being force-fed my words, you will consume this, now open those eyes and shut your mouth. The voices are laughing so thunderous within my head; everyone in the hospital waiting room can hear them also. This is how a mental patient has the ability to let his writings blossom, a little miracle-grow always helps.

I can’t differentiate the difference between good and bad, the rules seem to belong to others, unlike myself. But I am trying at life, I am writing my thoughts so you can understand where this man stands. My thoughts have an insane manmade disease; please contain yourselves everyone, my evil form of writing is the cure for all the malevolence within me. Literally Literacy lit up me and Lives in me illicitly but until those Literary Agencies appear licking at my feet, I’ll pretend to be an inbred breed with pen on his sheets.

If you’re being bullied, fight with all your might. News Flash, if your streets are war zones and you want out, walk away. If you are hungry, go in search for food. If you want something, go get it. We forget we are all tools for our own design. If you would like to make history, you must be willing to incorporate the past for future reference.  I’m tearing up my work because I am a no one, Jack the Ripper.  All my oppositions are waving guns and blades at me; I reach into my Levi jeans pocket and wield my pen, smiles turn to shrieks.

I’m keeping up with the best writers to have ever lived; Once upon a time there lived a schizophrenic and instead of being Jekyll & Hyde he found respect to write. I am the devil wearing Edgar Allen Poe’s Skin, I am the true definition of writersblock… put your pens down and stop squiggling; resistance is futile. Reality has wriggle and wrestled into my head and has meddled this vessel, I am awake in my bed scared to sleep encase I end up dead. Am simply showing this planet the pain I must claw over and the super human ability I fight evil with, Alex, exact your Superman pose now.

I am begging and pleading with the powers that be, I need out, I am looking for a writing career. Have I not proven myself? If not show me what I must do to entail greatness. I do not wish for Ferrari’s or Mustang’s. I do not wish for Celebrity friends. I do not even wish to the best all of my time, but I will try my hardest in doing so.

Be afraid of me! Hasn’t your mother every told you not to feed the animals, the same rules apply for me.  This mirror is pushing his luck, cracking every one of them in my home; is this why no wonder wondrous wonders can find me? I’m saving the best until last; the rest of my work will fall into the wrong hands and burst into flames. I’m a writer; life for me is black and white, neither shades of grey nor gloom of colour.

I don’t know what is real or not, this is what I get for living amongst people who would rather act fake than themselves. As long as I stay true to myself and to my writing I cannot lose. Go down-down-deeper and down to see my more black. A cracked window to my soul, ooze out these words through life’s battle holes. Smitten towards the dark side, all I am doing is light searching.

A regular job, conventional living, typical relationships, uniformed and all but underneath the ordinary, I don’t work, I am out-of-order.

My work will be cryptic when I snooze in my crypt, laughing all the way to the grave, My B-day jumps down the alphabet to D-day. But on these weaving streets the police can’t unravel crimes; I am the king of this jumble. No one is a patch on me, the closest they get to me is wet patches when they see me writing. Haha!

What am I writing? How do I write? Who is the best literary agent? How do I get a Book Deal? What do people like to read? How to become a great writer? What are the best pieces of writing? Google-God, please answer me! I beg and plead to the almighty Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn and other social networks I look upwards for guidance in my quest.

I babble sometimes, stemming from coherent to believe it or not. I don’t live in your world, I live in these words. So please keep up, as I have millions upon millions where this came from.

I care less as this world has treated me careless. I’m chasings legends while trailing questions but the meds wedding date is set for Feb. My play on words along with my wayward ways equals bad school days. For you; so who is the loser of the class now? Riddle me that. You’re all the class clowns. It’s the slim line between genius and madness I always trip over when I’m sleepwalking in my own darkness. I’m writing akin to giving a great white shark a kiss, sinking my teeth into this pad for bad bliss. As I’m feeling a little red riding in the hood, I’m embarrassed.

Chasing dreams while nightmares are chasing me, poetic justice, in the eyes of thee. I’m channelling this brutal beautiful baleful attitude before you accuse me with your poison arrow looks. This pen can feel, my pain, use your eyes, this instrument of writing will be my bane; before long you will no longer read the same. You’re bargaining as I’m barging into writers with a pad full of words, I’m on a rampage, I should belong in a glass cage or the bat cave, master of my craft, one day to the bank I shall be laughing, grasping my sword, so watch your work become ravished in invisible ink, I can write you all to vanish is such anguish in which you tarnish your own page.

Blench and bench your pens, this time is mine. I’m coming for it all, plus one. What do I need to do? I NEED TO SHOCK AND INSPIRE!!! I can do this… I can… Now can you hear me screaming? I’m transforming, the true birth of a writer is painful. I’m reaching for light with both hands, I will get burned; a little melted flesh is nothing to me. So bring forth the unemployment line, I will wait my turn to get paid, I can wait a lifetime as I am a mental patient with eternal patience. Times are hard, writings soft, life is sorrowful, what else am I to do but go after what I want. Bleach your words.

Unlovable, in one word, outcast and unknown, would three more.  I have to be this way; a certain side of me cannot sustain the natural laws I am born chained too. Monster or freak would sum up your feelings towards me if you had gotten to know this stranger I see deep within this mirror. I have an attribute of possession, possessed by a demon named Crowl. How I came to possess this possessor is a British Horror Story Asylum I’d rather forget but as my story unfolds you will question your own dark side I know you yourself possess. I am nobody, this is not my body, bloody and boldly I write slowly cold, whilst I’m holding my soul, folding these pages and getting back to work, I want to walk and blow. I’m going to hell!

Deliver me to the underworld, I’m ready for death. Geronimo! Bullets and knives make my halo; I stand with my horns held high as this world must witness both my points; my own and my pens. Charge! Bind my soul in hellfire, masochistically speaking this will be the best time of my life. Lit torches and pitchforks melt my skin, marvel at the screams for more. The strong stay strong and the weak get eaten. This is amazing, I’m no longer human I am devilishly makeshift inside, I see a bad moon rising. I’ll be a troublemaker, shaking hands with undertakers so I can outwit extraordinary wonderfully strangers. I feast on devils and angels, a wing or a trotter, nibble along with this sinner.

I’ve had it with this world, start dispensing the oil; don’t worry everyone! I have hacksaws and a matchbox. I’m sitting on my throne of animal bones and alien skin. Can you feel my anger yet? Warm your hands from this page. Welcome to the new age; Thugs have had their shots and Vampires have had their bites, now give mental patients a slice of legendary, I promise we will not disappoint. I’m not possessed by an entity, but I am full of demons. Plug-ugly!

I’ll be running around down here killing killers, a psychopath’s wet dream. A knife in one hand and a pen in the other, if I can’t catch and kill you I’ll destroy your soul within my fiction. I’m bringing the world to its knees, how can you beg for forgiveness with your mouth full? Swallow my pride. I’m a forgotten evil; I told this world I will be back as I remember every detail of what you have all done to me. Feeding my hell-hounds all which have fell from shuddering grounds, hell bound, fresh meat, fetch their flesh for me once I ring the dinner bell. I’m a male dictionary and a malediction. Seven deadly sins in seven seconds flat, seven levels of hell and a head-full of hellish schedules, life can try its hardest to take me back.

My phraseology is impeccable but so is my unnatural nature which natters in my noggin. Look on the Brightside of life, everything over there is settle snug when I set it alight. You say I am a sheer handful, perhaps yes, of fire, please hold me a little longer. I’m bucking up my ideas; penny for my thoughts means money for my fury. I’m living in a home where everything I do is wrong, a correctional house. Burn it, burn it all!

I demand a modicum of respect whilst tied down to this bed; this is not for my protection, it’s for your safety encase I get my hands on the murder weapon, my pen. I learnt to write what is carved on my chest from Tupac and The Notorious BIG, two shooting stars, I wish to you when your music blears loud. This world isn’t full of humans, your all antipsychotics; I am popping two a day now. So bring forth cataclysms and pitch black padded prisons, battery in my back; one cell per patient.

He takes drags his fingers from his keyboard and clenched the tension in his knuckles.

“There you go world, no let us see if this makes any difference to my blog.” A sigh of relief is exhaled.

His mother walks over, slinking and chasing his work on his laptop.

“That seems like a lot of writing, I told you if you kept at it a focused properly, you would conjure up something.” She winks and she hands him a wad of piled clothes.

“Yeah, but I don’t think they are on the same wave length as me when I scribble stuff down, to them it’s just nonsense.” A sigh of disbelief is acquired.

“Listen to me, if you write it people will read it and in time they will get the gist of how you write. Its complicated process and most writers go through it. Write for greatness and great things happen. Remember, what is for you shall not go by you.” She speculates in her motherly ambitious tone.

Thanks mom.

 

 

I hope you guys liked this. PRESS THE LIKE BUTTON!!! (The button is right underneath here, or on the bar on the top of your page.) Also if you can circulate some of my work around your social websites, it would be a great help. And you can follow me too. I am coming to visit your blog soon, I promise.

Keep those pens busy!

Alex

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1 Comment

Filed under Life, Literacy, Literary Agent, Writer, Writing, Writing #2

One response to “How We All Write

  1. Pingback: My Evil Pen Told Me To Write This 4 | Adult & Teen Fiction

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