Yeah sometimes I just scratch my bread to feel something… I don’t know it feels good. It’s nice to know my brain is still fucking working. Sometimes I just sort of feel like a walking dead. No not a fucking zombie, just on another plain. Like everything around me is living and moving at a different speed and I just look at my hands and wonder if I could walk through a building. It’s kind of lonely when you’re surrounded by so much life and you can’t keep up. It’s one reason why I like to keep to myself. I know I will always get me, and I have the most amazing conversations in my head. The voices are always so polite, they thank me when I make them coffee and eat a cookie, we really get along. I’m only half kidding if you can’t tell. But really it’s kind of crazy just walking outside and seeing someone on their way to work. They just seen so put together. Life makes sense. There is no question of what is going to happen next, while I just look out the window and wonder if this is the last day I have even though my body has given me no reason to doubt it.

I was thinking about starting a new book. That might help me get out of this rut. I can’t believe how many talented writers I know and they all share my shit, I don’t know why. I always like promoting their shit on my blog too. If you’re a fucking writer looking to get your shit out you should write to me and I’ll feature your shit on my blog, fuck why not? Writers helping writers right?

One of the authors I follow tweeted about the new book he’s finishing up. I write about him a bit on this blog. His name is R.K. Gold, the dude is a fucking machine. He writes like a monster, always high fucking quality, and a ridiculous amount of quantity. I think he’s the real fucking deal. His first book, I shared on here a bit, but it was fucking insane! Just Under the Sky! If you haven’t gotten it you should.

Here is the amazon link but you can get it on Barnes and Noble too if you hate Amazon lol http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B01631191S/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?ie=UTF8&btkr=1

Anyway I saw he was working on a new book about killing God. I mean what!? Is this kid trying to become best friends with Neil Gaiman now?

Meanwhile I’m just writing the same old stupid shit, which sounds more and more like drug talk. I don’t know.


Like I said, I’m just standing on the side of the river of life watching heads bob over the streams. They think they’re white caps but really they’re shoals looking to stop my progress and drown me the second I dip my pinky toe into the water. And I want to. It’s steamy as fuck and living on the sidelines of life is how you get pneumonia. It’s fucking brutal and freezing, and no one wants to share the bed.

Yeah that’s what I’ll do. I’ll start living again. I’ll start writing again. Damn, starting up this blog again was the best decision I’ve made recently. Fuck it’s nice to just write and write and not have to worry about how pretty it is. Fuck the make up honestly, fuck editing fucking blows. Yo! I’m back mother fuckers this is it!

I am pumped! I feel good! I’m jumping into that fucking water and not just floating. No, fuck that. I’m swimming with the current.


Fuck YEAH!


2 thoughts on “Damn Just Damn

  1. You want to start writing again? Stop comparing your work to anyone else’s. You have to write, by yourself, for yourself, until the only voice you hear is the one telling you to write faster.

    It is great to admire other writers. But that’s not writing.
    It is great to enjoy their work. But that’s not writing.
    Learning about their process can help you improve. But that’s not writing.

    Writing is writing. Putting one god forsaken word after another into a sentence filled with meaning. Even if in the beginning, the meaning is nothing more than the sentence provides.

    I sat.
    I sat and watched.
    I sat and watched the waves.
    I sat and watched the waves cover the body.
    I sat and watched the waves cover the body as it slowly floated.
    I sat and watched the waves cover the body as it slowly floated out with the tide.
    I sat and watched the waves cover the body as it slowly floated out with the tided — and I was relieved.

    The first six sentences tell you nothing. The seventh tells you everything.

    Writing is a brutal artform. You start with no materials, no inspirations, nothing to emulate, producing nothing you can hold. Nothing you can show someone and have them immediately feel it.

    Writing requires you to create an ephemeral dream, convince someone it is worth viewing and when you are done, leave them with a concrete memory, of something that never happened.

    There isn’t anything harder than that.

    Cut yourself some slack. Get up every day and write 250 words. One page. About anything. On a day you literally can’t, open your favorite book and copy 250 words. Read them when you are done.

    Come back again tomorrow and repeat. Every day will get easier. If you have any of the true stuff of a writer, one day you will say, “One page isn’t going to cut it. My idea now needs two.”

    Then you have stopped listening to other voices and can only hear one. The one that says “Dammit, I am a writer. Now get the hell out of my office, I’ve got a deadline to meet.”

    Don’t forget to hide the body…


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