Tag Archives: writing

New Horror Novel Out: The Dweller

Dweller Cover FINAL PRODUCT

I have a new horror novel out now on Amazon that delves into my musings on perception, dreams and the spirit world—and just in time for the holidays! You should definitely check it out!

 http://www.amazon.ca/Dweller-Hernan-Monzon-ebook/dp/B00OVKYPWY/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1414252310&sr=8-6&keywords=the+dweller

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.

Writing is to Bleed Across Every Damn Page

I don’t want to write safe.
I want to stretch out and
bleed across every damn page
and when it’s finished
I want to feel that I have
truly left something
that was a part of me
behind
as harrowing as the process
might be to myself
because why else
would I really bother
picking up a pen
unless it was to dig it
deep into my chest
and let it just bleed
freely and openly
across every
damn
page.

Sometimes The Only Thing You Have Left Is Fight

Gathering up your days
into something that is meaningful
is at times an absolutely daunting task
at best
when the evening completes
your transformation into
a haggard shell of what you were
when you had awakened.

Your shoulders hang limp.
Sleep gravity threatens to floor you.
There are strange colourful shapes
floating in the corners of your eyes
and focus seems
out of the question.

You need to shut yourself down but
tomorrow will be the same
and there will be no sense of
forward movement.

That is unacceptable.

You were not put here
to give in
so you pick up where you left off
and you keep at it until the
sense of having actually
accomplished something
settles in because that
is who you are.

Sometimes all that you have left is fight.

Sleep is for the damned.

Anger is a gift.