Category: Culture

Run

There’s this photograph: a snapshot in time taken by an unknown photographer and posted onto a website filled with thousands of images pooled together from all over the Internet. It sat nestled in a series of travel pictures, wedged between a photograph of the Louvre at sunset and a deserted island beach with crystal clear water and sands of brilliant white. It was the kind of image that many would skip over and never give a seconds thought. There was no tranquil waters, nor monuments of modern architecture. There was just a camera, a knife, and a gun sitting on a velvet runner. An odd inclusion amongst a sea of exotic locations, but that moment captured in time sent a shiver rolling down my spine.

I’ve never seen anything as striking as that photograph. I’ve never witnessed another image that could cause such a whirlwind of emotion within my soul. But between the camera, the knife, and the gun there was a freedom and simplicity that I’ve always longed for.

We live in a world where we are bound and constrained by our own creations. We wake every day and repeat the actions of the day before. We commute to work and clock into a job that leaves us unfulfilled so that we can earn enough to buy ourselves a few moments of respite or items of leisure that will help distract us from the fact that we are living out the same repetitive movements day after day. We sit in contemplative silence at our desks, in our cars or on the busses and dream of something more. We sit. When all we want to do is run.

I’ve always had a desire to run. I guess that’s why the photograph left me feeling so fragile. It’s what compelled me to save it to the desktop of my computer and stare at it every single day for years.

I’ve never really grasped much of the world that we live in. I don’t understand who decides what is popular, or why some people’s lives seem to be blessed with so much, yet others are afforded so little. I’ve never understood why hardship befalls good people, or why the wicked and heartless continue to achieve. But I’ve never really wanted to either. I don’t want step on others so that I can have a lot. I want to reach down and help out those who have fallen so that we may all achieve together and have just enough.

Sadly though my mentality is frowned upon. It’s a dog eat dog world, or so I’ve been told. People see your humanity as a weakness and use it as leverage for their own personal gains. Sometimes I try to fight against these feelings. I try to fit in. I wear masks to appear normal. I speak poorly of others in a vein attempt to show strength. But all I really want to do is run. Run and be free. I want to liberate myself from feeling as though I have to fit in. I want to take a camera, a knife and a gun and walk into the wilderness and find a freedom that people seldom realize exists.

But I’m not that brave. A guy like me would be eaten alive in the wild. I call myself a wolf but I’ve been raised in suburbia where I’ve suckled on the teat of mindless acceptance and laziness. So instead of living a life off of the map, I write for my freedom instead. I substitute the camera for a minds eye. I’ve traded the knife and gun for paper and pen. I can’t run no matter how much I want to. I can’t vanish into the sunset, but I can dream. I can create worlds to disappear into for a few brief moments in time. I can create literary photographs that provide a glimpse into a life of freedom and peace.

I use literature to create halcyon moments. When the demons of my past or the anxieties of my present become too much to bear I slip into the memories of glorious phrases, subtexts and plots like an intrepid traveller armed with his trusty camera, knife, and gun. I’m never going to understand humanity; I’m never going to be just another number marching to the beat of the majorities drum. But as long as I have my heart and my mind, my pen and my paper, I’ll never have to run.

Bellicose

“It ain’t about how hard you hit; it’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward. It’s about how much you can take and keep moving forward. That’s how winning is done.’

-Rocky Balboa.

It seems as though every single writer at some point in their life attempts to describe their process through the analogy of boxing. I’m a fighter they say. I’ve been knocked to the ground and picked myself back up again just to get where I am! Oftentimes their stories are inspiring and can in some way be loosely tied into the boxing metaphor, but after a while they can all start to gel together and fall into a state of forget-ability. It’s a great analogy; don’t get me wrong. But ultimately it’s a terrible cliché that we creative folk have forever tarnished. Even as I wrote out the epigraph at the top of this post I could hear the collective groan of ‘oh God, he’s quoting Rocky now?’

You better believe that I am.

Tomorrow is an important day for me. It marks the one-year anniversary of my trip to New York; the moment where I started to get my shit together and actually make some headway towards becoming an author. On July 3rd 2014 when I sat alone in an airport terminal awaiting my flight’s 6am departure I wasn’t exactly in the best of mental states. I’d just spent a month living with my brother and his now wife after a failed relationship had forced me to move out of my home. I was working a job that made me miserable, and had shrunk into myself to such a degree that I wasn’t even maintaining contact with my closest friends. Even my writing was terrible; flick back and read a few blog entries and you’ll see that I was a troubled soul desperate to make sense of his life.

In boxing terms I’d been knocked the fuck out. I was sprawled out on the mat staring at the ceiling as I sucked in painful gasps of breath, wondering how the hell I’d been sucker punched so easily. But as painful as it was at the time, I picked myself up and stepped onto a plane and gave myself the opportunity to fight again. I figured that if I wanted to be the wolf I claimed to be I had to learn how to get hit and get back up and just keep going.

Bellicose is an adjective that literally means showing aggression and willingness to fight. On July 3rd 2014 I didn’t realize that my willingness to chase a dream even when times were tough would allow me to become the man I am right now. I didn’t realize that just by dragging myself into pitching sessions I would reignite a confidence and passion that had been lost. And I could never have fathomed that the confidence my New York adventure inspired would ultimately allow me to have my work put into print.

Now twelve months on I have published my first novel, I run a healthy blog with a steadily growing audience, I’ve got a new career, a clearer mind and a beautiful girl who puts up with a lot of my creative antics. When I look at the monumental shift between where I was and where I am now, I can’t help but feel proud of what I’ve become. Life gets shit sometimes. There’s no denying that. Every single one of us has our hardship. But if you learn to build resilience and continuously give yourself the opportunity to fight: if you doggedly rise whenever you’re knocked down, eventually things get better. And if you keep battling on, and not just saying so through clichéd writings then eventually you’ll find happiness.

Writers and artists are often tormented souls. We live in the grey; an infinite space between society’s black and white where we fail to fully understand or accept life and conventional wisdom. At times life in the grey can leave you feeling isolated and alone; the art you strive so hard to create can literally leave you feeling dejected and disconnected from the people closest to you. But it’s important to remember in those moments of isolation that you’re not alone. You’re with me. And you’re with every single writer, musician, and artist that has come before you, or is still yet to come.

When you learn to pick yourself back up each time you get hit you start to realize just how strong you truly are. When you realize the depths of your own strength you can use it to produce artwork that becomes a shining light for others who are searching for an end to their own downward spirals.

Twelve months ago I never would have imagined that people would be buying my novels. I’d dreamed about it; but when I got rejected or punched out I’d give up. Now I’m sitting here at my desk smiling at just how far I’ve come in such a short space of time. The best part? I haven’t achieved all of my goals just yet; as far as I’m concerned I’ve only just begun.

Three Faces

Back in 2011 I won the Heading North Young Writers Competition and a place on panel of up and coming writers at the Byron Bay Writers Festival. At the time it was a pretty big achievement for me. I was twenty three years old and struggling to find my way in this world. I was living away from my family and partner so that I could try to pursue my writing dreams. I was broke, fragile and alone. But somehow a panel of judges managed to see through the muddled tale of woe I’d written and gave me an opportunity to shine. I was thrilled with the opportunity and told myself that this was my big break; that I was ready to take on the literary world…

…It was a definitely a break. Unfortunately it would be one that I’d fail to fully embrace before slipping into a harrowing low that saw me abandon writing altogether for a number a months. It was case of opportunity and talent colliding with sadness and sorrow. Unfortunately for me sadness and sorrow won.

So there I was sitting before an impressively large audience who had turned out to see me and two other writers interviewed on stage in a showcase to highlight the next big things in the local scene. I was trying my hardest to seem accomplished in my craft, but I couldn’t help but wonder just how the fuck I’d managed to win when an audience member asked if I had ever thought about starting a blog. Until that point I had never once considered running my own site, and promptly responded that I hadn’t because a blog was a very personal thing and I wasn’t prepared to expose myself like that. In hindsight the response was idiotic. You could see as much on the faces of those in the audience. I had this crazy idea that my writing life could be kept separate from my private life; when in reality the two were so intertwined that if I wanted to truly succeed as a writer I would need to learn to embrace both.

Why am I telling you this? Well, to make a long story short, I screwed up. I missed opportunities and thought that I could create success with nothing more than arrogance and a sliver of talent. It would take another four years before I’d actually see my debut novel put into print; and it would take a broken mind, bloody knuckles, and eventually acceptance of self before I could even begin to achieve. I’m only just beginning to make up for lost time and make a name for myself as a writer. And while many of my friends, family and followers believe that I have achieved a great deal as of late, the truth is that I have been busting my arse for nearly a decade just to get here. I have invested a great deal of time to my craft, and will continue to do so for years to come.

But I’ll let you in on a secret: the reason that I have managed to gain so much momentum as of late is because I finally figured out how to be a great writer. It turns out that it’s actually quite simple…

…You have to be naked.

Peel back the layers of your outer self and expose the vulnerability within. Remove your inhibitions, cut out your insecurities, be naked and set yourself free.

There’s an ancient Japanese proverb that says you have three faces. The first face, you show to the world. The second face, you show to your close friends and family. The third face, you never show anyone. It is the truest reflection of who you are. For the general public this adage holds true. We put on a façade and move through life leading the world to believe what we want it to. Then we choose to let a few select friends and family members inside our circles of trust and allow them see our second face. The face that we reserve for those that we trust contains blemishes and insecurities, but as we grow comfortable with our loved ones we afford them the opportunity to glimpse the minor fragilities of this intricate canvas of ourselves. But it’s the third face, the one that we shield from the world that we really need to embrace if we are to be truly free.

It’s this face that you need to be prepared to show the world if you want to succeed as a great writer. This face is completely naked, vulnerable, and utterly beautiful. But for some bizarre reason it’s one that so many of us are afraid to reveal. It was this face that I was so afraid of exposing to the world when I said that blogging was too personal and that I wanted to differentiate my private life from my public one. It was this face that I would ultimately learn to be proud of and use to start finding momentum in my quest to create a career out of my passions.

So why are we so afraid to be vulnerable? Is it that we are scared of the judgement of our peers? Or is it that we are simply afraid to be free? We are so used to concealing the purest incarnations of our nature and desires that allowing ourselves the opportunity to be liberated from the faces we create to satisfy strangers appears daring and dangerous. But it is this art of removal, this art of extreme vulnerability that allows a writer, artist, man or woman to transcend beyond their inhibitions and be beautiful.  Look at any successful man or woman within the creative industries and every single one of them has one thing in common: they’re comfortable in their vulnerability. They can stand naked before the world and accept their imperfections as well as embrace their strengths.

So here I am standing before you, vulnerable and exposed in my nakedness. This blog allows me to remove the two faces that I have created for my family, friends and peers and be uncovered for all to see. You can see my strengths and flaws, and through embracing them I have become a far better writer than I ever dreamed possible. I’m naked, I’m vulnerable and I’m free. And you can be too. All you have to do is free your mind, remove your inhibitions and allow the world to experience the beauty of your soul stripped bare.

Be naked. Be beautiful. And be you. And if you do decide to open your soul for the world to see make sure you let me know. I’d love to meet the truest reflection of you.

I

‘Here I am with all my insecurities, all my imperfections, crying out to a world that just won’t listen’

-Adrian Fitipaldes

Someone recently told me that ‘I’ve changed.’ The comment was meant in jest; the individual in question was referencing the self-destructive Chris Nicholas of days gone by who was so bitterly angry that he’d cut off his nose to spite his face. Delivered by an old acquaintance with a cheeky smirk and a chink of beer glasses, they never could have imagined just how devastating their words would be. I’ve been feeling flat lately and the comment hit a lot closer to home than intended. In the days that followed I spent a great deal of time mulling over the idea in my head. I asked myself over and over if I have changed, and if so when this metamorphosis took place.

So have I?

You better believe I have. You only have to take a look at this site to see the shift.

In July 2012 I started this site as a means of confronting the mounting depression that had overtaken my existence. I was struggling with family illness, low self-esteem, being broke and away from those that I loved. So I wrote shamelessly; cutting open my chest and offering the small audience who read my first few posts a piece of my heart. From there I transitioned into an arrogant child who preached my narcissism and willingness to maim and self-destruct. I became wayward in what I was trying to achieve and my writing suffered greatly as a result. For the longest of times I was stuck in a cycle of frustration and self-deceit. Recently however, I’ve managed to get my shit together, produce some better quality work and actually start to make a name for myself in this industry.

I’ve come a long way from the teenager who struggled so much with his English studies that his parents forced him to undergo tutoring. And even further from the lost soul who cried out to the world for help on July 17th 2012. But no matter how far I reach, how much I achieve, or how wonderful my life is, I will forever have to live with my insecurities and imperfections; namely depression. For a long time I tried to deny this. I tried to tell myself that I had overcome the demons inside my mind and that I was cured. I mistook my arrogance and aggression as overcoming my illness rather than recognizing that it was just another phase of self-loathing. I foolishly thought that if I didn’t feel down anymore I was normal once again. But there is no such thing as normal.

The truth is that it’s alright to not be OK.

The shift in this site’s content, my success as an author, and my life in general came when I began to accept that I will never be normal. I will always have a flaw in the biological makeup of my brain that makes me feel insecure or down at times. But that flaw is chemistry, not character. No one should ever feel ashamed about suffering from depression or mental health. It takes so much bravery and strength to stand up and tell the world that you need help, and I have nothing but the utmost respect for anyone courageous enough to do so.

I’m not OK, I never will be. But it’s my insecurities and imperfections are what make my life so beautiful and worth living. It’s through embracing these weaknesses (and I say the word loosely) that I am able to write and thus reach out and connect with you the reader. No one is infallible, no one is perfect, and at some point in our lives we all feel low. I’ve just been fortunate enough to learn how to use this site to turn those negative thoughts into something greater than I.

The person who told me that I have changed did so because I told them that Midas had been put into print. Whenever I tell people about my proudest achievement to date they inevitably do the same thing. They congratulate me for the success, purse their lips and ask ‘do you mind if I ask how much money you’re making from it?’

While I’d love to tell them that since the book was released in February I have become a millionaire it simply isn’t the case. I’ve sold a few copies (hopefully enough to please Meizius Publishing) but financial gain doesn’t mean a thing to me at this point in my writing career. Right now I just want to reach out and connect with readers so that once they put complete my novel, or finish reading my posts they are grateful for the experience we have shared together. While in my days of anger and frustration I used to brag about how much money I could make when I became published and tried to base my emotions on fiscal gain, the truth is that I’m not doing this to become a millionaire.

I’m doing this because I, Chris Nicholas am a depressive person who has the ability to see both great beauty and despair in the world around me. I’m doing this because I want to share my experiences and my love with readers. And I’m doing this because through writing I have learned that it’s perfectly normal to feel fractured, broken, down or low. I have learned that it’s alright to not be OK.

So after a great deal of thought I’ve decided that I have changed. But I’ve done so for the better. The boy I was three years ago when Renegade Press isn’t shit compared to the man I am today. I am Chris Nicholas; writer, man wolf and world eater. I’m not perfect and I never will be. But that’s what makes what I do so damn beautiful.

Space

Have you ever stood at the entrance way to an attic left cluttered and disheveled and thought about just how beautiful the space could be if someone only took the time to clear up the junk, sweep out the dust and make some space? You probably stared across the landscape of dank cardboard boxes stuffed and overflowing with the past, or moved through dusty sheets protecting furniture discarded long ago from the humiliation of a dirty surface. There was probably very little room for you to move. You stepped over boxes, or pushed between stacks of books and piles of sundries from a previous life as a thought settled into the back of your head that this space could be glorious. If only you took the time to clear up the haphazardly discarded contents and made it your own.

Or maybe for you it wasn’t an attic. It could have been a basement; or a storage shed; or another space entirely. No matter how you choose to refer to the room one thing remains constant: it has the potential for beauty, you just need to allow it the opportunity to be beautiful. Clean up the mess, throw out the shit you’ve held on to for too long and you’ve got yourself a space that is all your own…

…That attic is essentially how the mind of a writer, musician, artist or creative individual looks. Or at least that’s how it feels. When you are in the infancy of your immersion into the creative industries you find yourself bound by certain real world principles and responsibilities that can make it difficult to fully embrace your creative impulses. You need to have a roof over your head so you get a job that doesn’t really aid your creative urges. You need to be healthy so you start an exercise program. You want to be smarter or learn how to better hone your craft so you sign up to university or online courses. And of course you still want to have the luxury of a social life so you schedule events into your calendar.

Before you know it you’ve committed the creative man’s ultimate sin and quite literally scheduled yourself out of having the time and space to produce art of any form. You get busy; we all do. But unlike your peers who have to attend to one existence you’ve got two. There’s the regular every day you moving through the actions above; and there’s the creative you who is stuck in a rut desperately searching for a way out.

The inspiration and ideas to be creative don’t stop coming in those times of scheduling nightmare. In fact they come hard and fast, often blindsiding you at the most inopportune of times. You can be in a meeting at work when the ending to a scene you’ve spent weeks searching for suddenly comes to light. Or you’ll be on a date, in the gym, or stuck in traffic when a brilliant idea for a blog post or manuscript settles into your mind. If you’re lucky you’ll have a scrap of paper or notepad on hand to scribble the idea onto. But if you’re not you’re left with no other choice than to pack the idea into a cardboard box and store it in the attic of your mind. You throw it haphazardly amongst similar thoughts and there it sits untouched while you continue to deny yourself the time to create.

Then you inevitably crack. You become disengaged with reality as you yearn to become lost in your own thoughts. People say that they understand. But how can they? They don’t know what it’s like to have an attic full of cluttered ideas. The urge to produce art continues to grow inside of you until you have to step back and re-evaluate your existence and the choices you make. If you don’t you start pushing people away, fucking up at work and become increasingly bitter at yourself for consistently making such poor decisions. You need to clean out your mind. You need to make some space.

So you pick up a box and open it up. There’s a half formed idea for a novel inside. There’s promise, but it’s not great and you know that it’s the wrong time in your career to embark on a project like this. So you take the idea and make some notes in a notepad for another time and place. Then you remove it from your mind completely. In the next box you find a dreadful blogpost that was never meant to see the light of day. It has no purpose in your attic anymore so you set it alight and watch the frail paper blacken and curl. And so you move on and on; compartmentalising the ideas worth keeping, turning many boxes into all but a few. You discard anything that doesn’t feel right or is just plain shit. Before you know it the attic overflowing with discarded thoughts has been swept clean and you can even open a window and allow sunlight to spill in.

The space brings with it a clarity; a sense of clear understanding of who you are and why you fell in love with creative arts in the first place. Your attic is an area that exists solely for you. You can choose to crowd it and watch your creative inhibitions suffer. Or you can periodically clean it out and whittle the ideas and opportunities that you do have down to your very best.

As I grow older and start to realise that I’m no longer a teenager with an acid tongue and an axe to grind, I’m finding myself more and more inhibited by scheduling. I need to work. I need to be healthy. And I need to be social. But if I continuously try to find time to write and ensure that I prevent my mind from becoming cluttered then when I do manage to put pen to paper it will be the very best work that I can produce. I mean, there’s twenty four hours in a day; no matter how busy I am surely I can devote at least one of those to doing what I love.

Sowing Season

Have you ever noticed how in times of need humankind turns to phrases and expressions to justify their emotions or the circumstances that they find themselves caught in? We utter such clichés as everything happens for a reason, or what doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger, and countless other little phrases to get us through a tough time. Even when everything in our life is going fantastic we try to pigeon hole the experiences afforded to us by saying I’m so blessed right now, or that my hard work is finally paying off. It seems as though we as a species need this validation of our thoughts, feelings and experiences. We appear to almost struggle to function without being able to justify every moment of our life through spoken and written word.

Sometimes it seems as though no matter what the circumstance, there is an expression ready to be recited in an effort to inspire, motivate, and aid you in overcoming it. Personally I love that mankind is so determined to understand itself. I’m even more thrilled that it has chosen spoken and written word as the vessels through which it seeks that understanding. My dreams of being a successful author would be all but screwed if we were more comfortable in taking the world and our experiences at face value. Without this thirst for knowledge and understanding there would be no writing, no art, no music, or creativity in general.

However, these expressions that we are so willing to affix to our situations can be dangerous. Too many are submissive and allow us as a species to flounder and fall short of our true potential. Shit happens. Yeah it does, if you’re prepared to let it.

Let’s back track a bit. This whole post came to fruition because of an article I recently read which detailed a study released by the European Journal of Social Psychology on creating habits. The study followed ninety six people over a twelve week period, during which they determined that the average time required to develop a habit was sixty six days. I found the article incredibly intriguing; the study suggested that through conscious implementation of a new movement or thought pattern for sixty six days it would become so ingrained in one’s subconscious that it would inevitably become habit. Being the inquisitive person I am I decided to take this idea give it a shot. I picked an expression that I could relate to and aspired to make a change.

You reap what you sow. At least that’s what I have been told. So I decided that for sixty six days I would sow nothing but seeds of positivity and determination into the fabric of my life. I resolved to cut the negativity from my soul and instead focus on finding the silver lining in every situation. I sat at my computer and I punched out articles of hope rather than angst, I stopped actively trying to cripple people and instead focused on being a better version of me.

The result? Well right now I’m on day eighteen of this little experiment and so far things are looking pretty damn good. I’ve been running this blog for a couple of years, amassing a somewhat decent audience of followers and likers to my sporadic ramblings. But with focus, positivity and determination I managed to double my readership by day eight. By day twelve I tripled it. And just today I received some exciting information that I can’t wait to share with my readers.

That’s not to say that the experiment hasn’t had its moments. I’ve nearly cracked a few times and reverted back to the narcissist arsehole that used to run this site. I’ve upset a few people close to me over the past three weeks, and to those that I have I truly am sorry. I love you to death and although I will undoubtedly slip again, with your help I will forever strive to be a better person.

You reap what you sow. Perhaps one of the most overused expressions of all time. But for this writer truer words have never been spoken. I’ve spent years walking around with clenched fists and a mind fuelled by rage, searching for my next victim. During that time all I have found is resistance, unhappiness and despair. But after just eighteen days of positivity and focus I’ve achieved more than I ever did during those times of shame. When you’re sowing seeds of hate or submission into your life, you’re going to reap resistance or dominance from life itself. But when you open your heart, free your mind and start sowing positivity the payoff is so much more rewarding.

As a writer you spend your entire life trying to create something new; something fresh. And at times in can become difficult to prevent yourself from falling into the trap of clichés. There’s the old Sir Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch theory that states that there is only seven basic conflicts in literature, and to consistently try to think outside of the box and create something fresh and relevant can be exhausting. Add to that the fact that oftentimes you’re also trying to avoid drawing reference to clichéd expressions and you can find yourself walking an intellectual minefield of potential story ruining one liners and plot points. But as a man or woman who seeks to find enlightenment and their path in this world those same clichés can offer hope and guidance. You just need to pick the one that works best for you.

Shit happens to those that let it. But you reap what you sow. Sow shit and it’ll come back tenfold. Sow seeds of love, tolerance, determination and positivity and your crop will be more beautiful than you ever thought possible. We as human beings are forever going to subscribe to these expressions and clichés; but it is up to us as to how we draw inspiration from them. If you want to be submissive then you can continue to recite your tired adages of acceptance. But if you want to be the best damn person you can be than subscribe to a viewpoint that inspires. You reap what you sow. So chose your crop carefully.

Wolf

‘Hate must weigh on you like a broken cross.’
-Sam Carter.

I think that I’ve finally figured myself out. After twenty six years of screwing around and pissing away my talents and time I’ve finally started to realise who I am, who I want to be, and how to bridge the gap between the two. It’s a bold claim to make. But 2015 has started out so strongly that I feel confident enough to say that I, Chris Nicholas, am finally starting to become the man I was born to be. I’m merely scratching the surface of my true potential, but I’ve finally found the direction, determination, and hunger that has been lacking from my life for a long time.

When I look back at the history of this blog it’s clear to see that for a long time I was a soul in turmoil. Struggling to find my place in this world I bounced between short bursts of positivity before sinking into extended bouts of depressive entries and angst. From a technical perspective, the writing wasn’t great. From a mindset perspective, the pieces were even more troubling. I thought that it was funny to push myself past breaking point when trying to produce something of quality, finding joy in destruction, elation in woe, and my writing suffered greatly as a result.

My personality has evolved greatly over the past twenty six years; before I started writing I was incredibly shy. I’d struggle to talk to a cashier when buying milk. I’d keep quiet in group situations, and couldn’t even imagine plucking up the courage to ask a girl out on a date. But I found confidence through literature. Writing gave me a way to express myself. It was a means to unlock that vault of pent up rage and emotion in my heart and release. But for a time I went too far. I underwent a Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde like transformation and that shy child turned into a bitterly aggressive teen.

I would refer to myself as a wolf, and relish in the opportunity to offend or maim. I wrote to ward off my own inner demons, and I’d take aim at anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path. I had this insatiable lust to be different, to fail to connect with my peers, and to rip the throat out of anyone I could. At one point I even went as far as to call myself literature’s version of Alistair Crowley, bathing in the blood of my victims. My writing in this time was poor and disjointed in its construction. My success as a writer during this phase was non-existent. And in all honesty I was undeserving of any acclaim. Who wants to read dribble from a whiney little bitch?

I’m a pretty aggressive guy. I’ve always had a short fuse, and I probably always will (even though I’m actively trying to become a more tolerant man I did recently threaten to break someone’s jaw). But I’ve reached a point in my life where I have released the contents within that vault of rage and I no longer see a need to savage everyone I come into contact with. I’m still a wolf. And I’m still prepared to bare my fangs and tear someone limb from limb if need be, but I’m no longer wasting time hunting for conflict. Life’s too short to get bogged down in unnecessary shit, and I’ve got too many goals I want to achieve to waste my time in fruitless endeavours. I spent so long filling my heart with hate, and all it did was weigh me down. When you carry the broken cross of hate all you have to show for your troubles is loneliness and the stooped shoulders and fractured spine of heartache.

So then now that I’ve found this happy medium, and I’m beginning to understand the enigma of me, who is it that I actually want to be? I want to be a writer. I’m pretty sure that is blatantly obvious at this point in time. But I want to be more than that. I want to have a positive effect on the industry as a whole. I want to create great texts and inspire others to consume literature of all forms. I want to educate, as well as continue to learn. I want to inspire and be inspired. And most importantly I want to be a man; not the macho dickhead type, but the kind that transcends beyond such limitations and becomes one with the world.

Knowing the path that I wish to walk is a start. I’m no longer simply stating “I want to be a writer” and waiting for the universe to drop a publishing deal in my lap. I’m starting to formulate a plan of attack to make that dream a reality. Acknowledging my temperament means that I’m growing; when this blog started I never would have envisioned that I’d be writing posts concerning homosexuality or Islam. Yet I find myself drawn to such topics not because I necessarily identify with them, but because I’ve found myself living in a world where there is so much beauty repressed by the ideals of man that to not draw attention to matters of the heart or mind would be a travesty.

My point is this: as far as I know I’ve only got one shot at this crazy thing we call life. I don’t know what happens when it’s all over, but I do know that the time I have is a precious thing and I need to cherish it. When the curtain draws, or the screen fades to black I don’t want to look back and think about all the time wasted being overtly shy, or unnecessarily bitter. I want to look back and say that I gave everything I had to being the best writer and man that I could be.

I recently had a stern reality check where a stranger I had never met contacted the organisation I work for regarding the death of her partner. They had fallen in love at the age of sixteen and spent their lives together until he passed away aged seventy one. They spent fifty five glorious years together before he passed, and in her mourning she was contemplating suicide. The thought of a life without the only man she’d ever loved was too much for her to bear. I suddenly found myself listening to this woman as she bared her soul and expressed her desire to give up. She had the pills left over from her ailing husband in her home, and no reason to continue on.

I don’t work for a suicide prevention or mental health organisation, but here I was helping someone come to terms with a loss that was so much more severe than anything I had ever dealt with. By the time we finished talking she had realised that as painful as it would be to live without her husband, she would continue to do so. Because there is nothing in this life more beautiful than life itself. The call ended and I put down the phone knowing that we would never be in contact again. I’d never hear how her life changed from that moment on. Never understand exactly how she felt knowing that she was strong enough to move forward. But I did realise that I have so much to be thankful for, and so much to look forward to.

I know my path; I know the difficulties that lie ahead of me. But I also know thanks to a stranger on the other end of the phone line that there is nothing between where I am now and where I want to be that I can’t overcome. I’m no longer a shy little boy, or an overly aggressive teen. I’m a writer, a man, a wolf and a world eater. For the first time ever I’m accepting my strengths and weaknesses and focusing on where I want to be rather than maiming those around me.

Ready, Set, Misfire

New year

Have you ever looked into someone’s eyes and wondered just why the hell they love you as much as they do? You question why they support you through all of the mistakes that you’ve made, all the opportunities you’ve missed, or people you have offended. Well, today I asked myself that question as I left my family’s home in Coffs Harbour and drove the five hour commute back to my rental in Brisbane, marking the end of my holiday season. I sat in my car and I waved goodbye to my Mum and Dad and watched the way that they looked at me and my heart broke. These two people have given me everything they possibly could in this life, busting their arses throughout my junior years to provide me with an education, a roof over my head, and everything else. Yet all I’ve ever done to repay them is purchase questionable Christmas/Birthday gifts and embarrass them by running my mouth or failing to follow through on my dreams.

Yep, here comes one of those 2014 in review posts in which I, the writer, wrap up my successes and failures over the past twelve months. Unfortunately, I didn’t quite achieve everything that I’d hoped for.

See, every single New Year’s Eve I get drunk. And when I get drunk I get a little lippy. And when I get lippy I start telling anyone who will listen that in the next twelve months I will have my manuscripts published. Twelve months ago I underwent that ritual, and while I’d like to say I gave my dreams hell, I still managed to fall a little short. This year I continued to produce entries on this blog, had my work featured across a number of websites, met agents, publishers and authors in New York City, and shook hands with a Duke. I finished a manuscript, and commenced two more. I even managed to piss off a couple of religious fanatics who tried to deface my blog but subsequently drove huge numbers of people to this site, making it ever more successful (Oh well, at least they tried).

But I also had my fair share of failures. I ended a long term relationship, destroyed the career path I’d been on for four years, and buried friendships. I drank (a lot) for a period of time in order to suppress my feelings of heartbreak, inadequacy and failure. And I fell agonisingly short of finally achieving that damned goal I set every New Year’s by actually seeing my work in print.

All in all, I’d say that I had a pretty solid 2014. I achieved a hell of a lot for a twenty five year old writer, but as I drove away from my parents I still felt as though the entire year had been a bit of a misfire. When I write I have a number of catalysts for doing so. What started as a means to overcome the demons that dwelled within my soul quickly became a way to produce stories I wanted to share with the world. And now as I grow older and my parents do the same, I write because I want to make them proud of their son; the same son who has a penchant for pissing people off and failing to follow through with his goals.

So as I drove away from my family’s home and felt a tear of regret slide down my cheek for all of the missed opportunities of 2014 I resolved to push myself harder than I ever have before in 2015. It starts with this very post: here I am on New Year’s Day, hangover free and determined to stop pissing away my time. Over the next twelve months I will chase down my dreams and I will do anything I possibly can to break into the literary industry. There will be misfires and there will be times when I fail, but if I keep focused on who I am and where I’ve come from then I’ll finally make it to where I ultimately want to be.

My parents raised four beautiful kids who owe them the world. It’s time to give it to them.

Reaction

‘You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life.’
-Winston Churchill

It appears as though I’ve made myself a few enemies with a recent post I wrote in an effort to promote harmony within our society. Seriously, if you’d like to read something highly entertaining skip down to the previous post and read through the comments. There’s some interesting banter between myself and another gentlemen (and one of his friends who decided to weigh in on the argument). But before you do, let’s stop and consider exactly what I was trying to achieve with my post that created an analogy comparing religion to stained glass windows…

Recently in Sydney Australia there was a siege where two members of the general public were murdered at the hands of a man from Islamic decent. In the wake of the tragedy there was an overwhelming display of support for the Islamic community throughout Australia through the hashtag #Illridewithyou; a concept where non Islamic Australians offered to catch public transport with members of the Islamic/Muslim community to promote harmony and prevent a racial fallout. A wonderful initiative that really cemented the concept that religious acceptance and multiculturalism can succeed in our modern world. I stated that because of a few bad eggs within the Islamic faith, the religion as a whole was unfairly judged within our society and suggested that we as a society should continue to support the community.

Interestingly enough, one gentleman didn’t appreciate my post, labelling it an appeal to emotion (ah, yeah, of course it was) and started listing a bunch of reasons as to why he disagreed with my logic. The situation escalated, and in true Chris Nicholas style I told him in not so friendly terms to get the hell off of my site and take his views elsewhere…

…Which he did. It seems that I pissed this particular member of the public off so much that he devoted an entire blog post to ratting me out, including my name and links to this very site. The funny thing about him doing this though is that I received a huge influx of visitors to Renegade Press, something I’m incredibly thankful for.

But I’m not here to be an arsehole and continue a feudal argument with a faceless adversary. I’m here to bury the hatchet, say let bygones be bygones, and move forward. To the gentleman named Citizen Tom, I applaud you; you are indeed a very intelligent man who knows a great deal about the religion you have devoted your life to. I did not intend to offend when I began to highlight discrepancies within the Holy Bible, and as stated I come from a Christian family very similar to you. What I did intend to do though is highlight that every religion and creed has its successes and its failures, even the religion that my family identifies with. I appreciate your stance on religion, although I do not necessarily agree with it, and you in turn do not agree with mine.

What I did not appreciate though was you taking up your intellectual broadsword and defacing my site with your viewpoint. I would never come on to your site and mar it, so when you did so to mine I bared my fangs and told you to disappear in terms that could only be defined as unpleasant. I am all for freedom of speech and believe that it is great that you have a following of likeminded individuals, but I am so firmly against cyberbullying or religious, intellectual, or creative condemnation that I will attack anyone who calls me out on the beliefs that I hold true. I read posts every single day that I do not agree with or find trivial, but I would never openly slander the writer on their own forum. This webpage is not devoted to religious ideals, rather it exists as an attempt to expand my own repertoire of entries as an aspiring author. If I chose to write about a topic such as religion or acceptance, I should feel free to do so without the prejudice of someone who shares the same faith as I do.

So you can choose to take this entry one of two ways. The first is to accept that there are different viewpoints, religions, and levels of acceptance within our world. Some people, like the gentleman I have upset, are quite devout in those viewpoints. And some like me are more open to alternative ideology. But it’s those differences in culture that make our world so damn beautiful. It’s those varying perspectives and the freedom of speech within our world that allows mankind to thrive. Without those differences we would never be able to experience the love and splendour we are fortunate enough to feel.

Or you can see this as me laying down and giving up against an intellectual adversary who is clearly better versed than I regarding his faith. Either way I don’t really give a shit. We are all human, we are all beautiful, and we are all connected. I don’t want to fight with anyone; I’m past that point in my life. Love me or hate me, I really don’t give a fuck.

Broken Windows

‘So sick of the sound of people giving up. You can’t stop me giving a fuck.’

–          Sam Carter
 
Close your eyes and imagine the most beautiful building you have ever seen. Imagine its towering spires hand carved from the finest of stone; picture the complexity its architects faced in producing such intricate patterns with nothing more than chisel, hammer and hand. Envision its beautiful entranceway. Can you see yourself moving slowly across marble floors? It’s majestic isn’t it? Oh, and what about the meticulousness with which the walls have been attended to. And the murals adorning the ceiling are divine! Every brush stroke of the paintings completed with a precise perfection that causes a breath to catch in the back of your throat. My, it’s stunning.

Now conjure up an image of the windows. They’re stained glass; exquisite and breathtaking. You’ve never seen anything quite like it. The windows are divinity incarnate. They take an already flawless building and give it a heavenly aesthetic.

Now imagine if someone within that beautiful building started smashing those stained glass windows that you had come to love. Suddenly that wondrous marvel of architecture would seem tainted. The glorious feat of man would become a dilapidated carcass left to rot on a street corner. The beautiful spires that rose to the heavens would begin to look like bent and broken spines of creatures succumbing to the brutal whim of man. The entrance would look eerie, the beautiful marble floors suddenly taking on the appearance of a swollen tongue rolling away from the doorway. The mural on the roof would look tacky in the irregular light shining through those busted stained glass windows.  You’d be outraged. You’d be pissed off. Fuck, if it was me and someone was breaking windows to my sacred castle I’d want their blood.

Now imagine if that building was your religion; and that the son of a bitch breaking windows was a radical or extremist. Imagine how heartbroken you would be to learn that someone who loves your religion just as much as you has decided to cause damage to its image in a bizarre plot to protect it. You’d be devastated as you watched people ridicule what you love simply because a minority of fanatical believers have tarnished the name of what you hold so dear. You’d be forced to watch your beautiful building decay until it became a laughing stock and members of the general public started collecting stones and smashing in whatever glass remained.

Ah, social disorder. It’s a fickle beast. While we preach love and unity many of us truly believe that ruin and woe make the world spin round. And when we see broken window we can’t help but pick up a rock.

What I’m talking about here is a sociological mashup of religious prejudice and the criminological Broken Windows theory. Sounds like a mouthful, but when you break it down it’s really quite simple. We live in a highly intolerant and destructive society and we spend our lives moving through the streets with pockets full of stones just waiting for the opportunity to destroy someone’s windows, face or faith. All it takes is a little self-inflicted damage by the likes of an extremist and we the general public begin tearing down a faith, mocking its followers and degrading its teachings.

That beautiful building you were imagining, the one that I asked you to then picture as your religion: that’s modern day Islam. A faith so engrained in the history of mankind that to call it anything other than beautiful would be an affront to our forefathers. Yet because a minute portion of the Islamic faith have started breaking their own windows and trying to kick down our doors as of late we suddenly view any Muslim as a terrorist or an outsider. I’m not trying to say that the religion is infallible; I don’t believe any religious creed can claim that mantle. Blood has been shed in the name of gods and deities since the concept of religion first came to fruition. But what I am saying is that to degrade an entire religion based on the actions of a select few is idiotic. Besides, I’ve met plenty of hate fuelled Christians, Atheists, and Jews in my time too.

Hate breeds hate.

When we as a community, or a nation, or a world divide and segregate the Islamic faith and label its followers as terrorists, or dogs, or fucking whatever, we drive a wedge of hate between their faith and our own narrow minded intolerance.

Just recently here in Australia we experienced a siege that was staged by one man of Islamic decent that tragically ended the lives of two innocent civilians. Since the incident there has been a great outpouring of support for the Islamic community through the hashtag #illridewithyou, however there has also been the inevitable rise of racism directed at the faith. Men and women across the country have started preaching their own ignorance and intolerance, belittling Islamic people due to the actions of one man.

It’s really got to stop. How can we live in a world so advanced yet be restricted by such prehistoric views and prejudices? How can anyone anywhere truly believe that someone is an evil or bad person based on their belief structure? If you’re a fuckwit, you’re a fuckwit regardless of what faith you follow. Likewise if you’re a beautiful soul than what religion you practise should have nil effect on how you are judged within our social structure. We live in a world where we believe it’s our God-given right to express ourselves and we fight venomously for those rights when they are threatened. Yet when a member of the Islamic faith or indeed any creed alternate to our own tries to express themselves we slander, we condemn, and we seek to silence by force.

This is hypocrisy at its best. And unfortunately we are becoming known as a highly racist, highly hypocritical nation overflowing with intolerant blowhards.

So next time you see someone hurling stones at the beautiful stained glass windows of the Islamic faith resist that yearning for destruction in your soul. Take the stones from your pockets and drop them on the roadway, you don’t need them anymore. Society doesn’t need them anymore. Instead try helping to clean up the mess. Scoop up the shards of glass and help your fellow man repair the once majestic windows of his damaged faith through love, compassion and understanding. Just as hate breeds hate, so too does love breed love. Turn upon your brethren casting stones and ask why they want to destroy something simply because they fail to understand it. I guarantee there is no sound reasoning behind their willingness to degrade and vilify.

#illridewithyou is a wonderful initiative. But sadly as with most social media fads it will die quickly and many who claimed tolerance will return to their bigoted ways and ideology. This in turn with further divide society and create more disharmony and repeat events like we saw in Sydney’s Martin Place. If we want to make a change we need to look within ourselves and denounce the hate that divides us.

As a man of the world I am honoured to stand alongside any faith and help rebuild their shattered windows. I will stand before masses that advance with stones in hand and protect the wondrous stained glass of a holy building or faith. Fuck riding with you, I’ll die alongside you in the name of social acceptance.