Tag Archives: novelist

The Dweller Chapter 12: Angels, Demons & Drugs

“So, you now have two choices.” She offered.
“What are they?” I asked as I walked around the bed towards my stash.
“Fuck or fight me.” Moon-girl grinned.
“How about a little of both?”
“Oh, I like the way you think.”
I turned back to the window just as the bedroom door burst open and Michael strode in, entering into the reflection of the glass like a ghost walking into the night sky. I turned around and shook my head. It was always a nice vacation here when he wasn’t around but it never lasted long between visits.
“Get rid of the groupie, now.” He adamantly demanded.
“She doesn’t have to go anywhere.” I replied.
“That’s right!” The groupie said. “I don’t…”
With a wave of his hand, Michael threw her off the bed as though she was moved violently by an invisible force. I really hoped that she wasn’t a journalist now. That would be hard to explain unless one had taken into account all of the booze and drugs that flowed freely through my place at any given time. Michael then, by moving his finger across the air, dragged the poor, screaming girl across the hardwood floor all of the way out slamming the front door behind her. Great, soon there would be a screaming naked woman down in the lobby. No wonder rent was so astronomically high.
Turning around and smiling at the disapproval on my face, he said, “Hey, I asked politely.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did.” Michael rubbed his bald head in frustration.

Author’s note: This was an excerpt from my current project ‘The Dweller’ that I have slaved over the last few months and now can finally see the end drawing near. I had written this novel 14 years ago and chose to rewrite it, which was a large mistake as it would have been less effort to write a new book from scratch. Lesson learned, I think.


On Writing A Novel

There comes a point in writing a novel that you get hooked on it, fall in love with writing it. You have to. You need to. With all the countless hours that you put into it with all the times you go over it down to the finest detail drawing it out filling a cork-board with post-it notes on what to change next run through sketching out each character down to their flaws -without that compulsion that love that obsession it’s just not going to be the same and you know it -without that you should just put it down put it away and go do something else because you know it’s just words then -it’s just words without spark or feeling and you’ll suffer through it you’ll suffer until it comes to you -you’ll pound it all out again and again until it arrives because once it does this thing that you’re working on? It comes alive and it becomes important to you it becomes vital to you it in fact

becomes everything.

What It’s Really Like Being a Writer

I gutted the chapter
because it was downright hideous.
What the Hell was I thinking?
That I could turn this macabre piece of bird shit
into something that was a joy to read?

I felt insane. Defeated.
I might as well jerk off and go to bed
but I was a fighter
because God never stopped pissing on my soul
so I went through it all again
slashing, hacking, mutilating
sometimes screaming as I did so
mostly crying
but I cleaned it out good
and then filled in the blanks
with something that made sense
thinking the whole time:
why was I a writer?
Why the fuck was I a Goddamn writer?
I would never be anybody. I was shit.
What a momentous waste of time!

I pounded at the keyboard
drank some wine
next thing I knew it was four in the morning.
“Jesus wept!” I cried.
I had to go to bed
so that I could wake up early before work
and work on this chapter again
because I was a lunatic in obvious need of rehabilitation.

Writing was a hard line to sell
even to yourself
even for all you other writers out there.

Goddamn you all to Hell.
I need a drink.