Something Short

It’s been a while since I shared some writing. Here’s a little snippet, hope I don’t disappoint.

“Have some respect for yourself, child.” The waves ceased, leaving him dry and naked under midday’s loneliness. Adam was standing on top of his father’s plinth, his arm stretched around the mighty boot, slanted over the edge. He opened his eyes. His people all looked in the same direction: right before Adam, with a desolate darkness that lingered over his snow white demeanor, stood Sarga, and to either side stood Geta and Jinda. Geta was fat and stubby, with bald eyes and a nasty head, and Jinda wore a sharp beard in crinkled threads, with only blackness in the hole of his empty left eye socket. All three bore their blood-red mark. “You shit on your father’s memory.” It was Sarga who had spoken. Continue reading


The Most Detrimental Thing Writers Do To Each Other and Themselves

I’ve been working overtime lately. Reading and writing have become my air and water, with sleep as my food, and food as my sleep. I wish to get to a point where I can write as well as the people who’ve inspired me to write; and the more I do both activities, the more I continue to understand. And the more I understand, the more annoyed I become.

The most blatant problem I have noticed with writers, specifically people who love to give out critiques, is that every single one of those persons seem to have a giant writing rule book that they probably stuff in the better-to-be-left-unsaid crevices of their body, and every time someone posts their work online to be critiqued, these people prance out and indicate numerous “mistakes” that make the new writer think, “Wow, I’m an idiot.” Continue reading

One Year In

Not really, but close enough. It was last October when I decided to start being serious with myself and understand what I wanted with my life. It was then I realized that auditioning to American Idol for a third time wouldn’t be any better than the first or second (hah, no that’s a joke, seriously, I never auditioned for American Idol, no way), and I also understood that my love for video games had already begun to deteriorate — I would never be happy in a career of Game Programming (which I’m fairly good at). I tried to remember what I did when I was younger, what I had always been good at, other than being lazy. I pulled out my old notebooks and looked over my unedited drafts, and I realized — I was a decent writer. While I may not remember the exact date this revelation came to me, I do know it was in October, and that night I opened the Word document where I started writing my first novel. Realistically, I never expected to finish it, and even more realistically, I never expected I’d do anything more than that. Knowing who I am and the track record I carry, any bets for my success would have made any bookie smile. But I trudged through and actually found what I was meant to do with my life, and for the first time I was really happy. It was a better feeling than downing that hard raid boss after 500 or so attempts, and even a better feeling than eating a plateful of spaghetti. For the first time in my life, I had done something — that was not forced down my throat by school or anyone seemingly superior — that I could be proud of. I had done something that was my decision to do in the first place. And the best part? I want to keep doing it for the rest of my life. Continue reading