Tag Archives: writing
Monster Under The Bed
My mind goes to some shady, slippery places
while I’m brushing my teeth or
grooming the cat or
removing evidence with bleach and a paint grinder.
come scurrying out of the
like cockroaches on cocaine.
I become immersed and
-an astronaut untethered.
Maybe I should switch to light mayonnaise.
Unplug the television.
Just start over.
Maybe I should check for ghosts in the attic
skeletons in the closet
monsters under the bed.
Maybe I am the monster.
New Horror Novel Out: The Dweller
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!
It doesn’t matter what you write about. If it has heart people will see that and if it has soul people will feel it.
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
On Writing Inspiration
is filled with
an uneasy silence.
My Old Novel is a Wounded Creature
I’m working on rewriting an old novel right now and it’s just like trying to patch up a desperately wounded creature that is constantly trying to crawl away.
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
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
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