Category: Culture

Wasted Talent

Sometimes I find myself standing in front of a mirror wondering just what the fuck I’m doing with my life. I find myself staring deeper and deeper into my own eyes, trying desperately to peer into my soul in an effort to decipher my past, my present, and my future. It’s not something I plan to do. I’ve never found myself thinking I need to find a mirror ASAP so I can question everything! But sometimes I’ll be caught off guard; lost in my own thoughts as I stare through bloodshot eyes at the tired man before me. Why haven’t you published anything? I’ll ask him. Why are all your friends in committed relationships or successful careers when you’re still pissing time away with such reckless abandon? How can someone who claims to be so intelligent have made so many mistakes?

It’s important to note that these questions are not linked to any previous battles I’ve had with mental health, nor are they an attempt to break my spirit. Rather I’ve come to know these questions as the writer’s equivalent of a teenager standing naked before a mirror flexing their biceps or pinching at their hips wondering what life would be like if they could make minor changes to their physical appearance. I stand and I stare at the man looking back at me and I appraise his features and his humanity. I try to imagine what steps I need to take in my life to bridge the gap between who I am and who I long to be.

Whereas I was once a boy I’m now a man. My chin that was once smooth is now covered with coarse hair. The skin around my eyes has grown the faintest inklings of crow’s feet, and my face is slightly freckled from a youth spent in the sun. For the most part I find myself comforted by the changes I see before me. I’ve grown older, wiser, and stronger. I’m gaining maturity while still possessing that youthful zeal. But when I focus on my eyes and ask myself those poignant questions; when I stare at the tiredness in them, they tell me that I’ve fallen short of where I could be by now.

Sometimes when I’m gawking at that man in the mirror he looks so worn down by his own shortcomings. And when he smiles glumly and shrugs his shoulders at his own wasted talent my heart shatters and the trumpets of missed opportunities sound inside of my head.

I am wasted talent personified.

This month I will turn twenty six, marking eight years since I began my journey as a writer. In that time I’ve experienced a number of highs and lows. I’ve entered writing competitions, winning some and earning accolades through people’s choice awards in others. I’ve completed various manuscripts and submitted them to publishers and agents, garnering moderate attention in my skill set. I’ve travelled across the globe where I’ve met authors and agents. I’ve shaken hands with royalty, and I’ve been invited to the odd industry event and party… But I’ve never quite broken into the industry in the way that I had envisioned.

Yep. Wasted talent. That’s me. Which is why I stare in the mirror and question why I often feel like I’m spinning my wheels while my friends and foes are racing ahead with dreams of their own. I’m a headstrong, arrogant piece of work. So I’ve got no issue in saying I have talent. I wouldn’t have come as far as I have as a writer if I didn’t possess some semblance of ability. But I’ve fallen short of success because there have been times where I’ve failed to grab the metaphorical bull by its horns and fight my heart out for what I really want. During those low moments where I have wanted to give up I’ve blamed everyone but myself for never quite making it. I’ve spat frustrated tirades against agents, publishers, other artists, the industry itself, and even factors within my life that are external to writing.

But I’ve never really taken ownership for my own willingness to accept second best. Until I started looking into the mirror. For the most part I’m a happy guy. Sure I’ve had some terrible lows in the past, and I’ll always be emotionally unstable. But I’m happy. I find beauty in every single day, and try to make the most out of my time here on this earth.

So why the fuck is there so much frustration and sadness in my eyes? And why can’t I stop myself from staring?

It all comes down to three things. Passion. Desire. And grit. I’ve got the first two by the fucking bucket full. I’m passionate about my craft and I have a desire to succeed that resembles an unquenchable thirst. But sometimes I lack grit. You know that real bloody knuckled, scrape yourself off the fucking floor styled determination? It’s been missing in my life. I thought it was there. But when the weight of the world starts pressing me into the dirt I tend to allow it. But if I really want to succeed I need to learn how to break its legs.

Passion, desire and talent will get you so far. But grit is what will make you a success. It’s grit that sees you send your manuscript to dozens of publishers and agents despite the rejections you have already received. It’s grit that sees a fighter punch his way out of the corner when everything is going to hell. It’s grit that sees someone with severe depression wake each morning and move forward with their life. It’s grit that sees the child bullied and beaten transcend above the petty taunts of his or her peers to become someone beautiful. It’s grit that sees anyone of us bridge that gap between who we are, and who we want to be.

I’ve been starting in the mirror asking myself why my friends and foes are in meaningful relationships or why they have successful careers whereas I do not. And for so long I’ve told myself bullshit excuses about how I’d chosen a career path that’s not easily defined. Or that the industry I want to work within is fickle. But the honest truth of the matter is that I haven’t deserved success. Having talent is just the beginning. It’s the gritty determination to keep picking myself up and trying again when I fail that will see me succeed.

When I stare in the mirror and cuss at myself for never quite breaking through it’s not because I want to fall apart again. It’s because I want to create a thick skin to accept failure and a yearning to bust my arse to keep going when all hope is lost. If my eyes are going to be bloodshot and tired I may as well make sure that it’s because I’ve given everything I have to trying to succeed rather than because I’ve grown old and bitter from a lifetime of giving up.

Breaking preconceptions

People often think that I’m gay.

I bet that’s not how you expected a post on this site to start. Or maybe you did, depending on whether or not you are someone who has misinterpreted my writings. Either way it’s an issue that I seem to face on a semi regular basis in my life. It used to really upset me when people came to this assumption. I’d screw up my face in disgust and start forcefully jamming my heterosexuality down their throat. I am a Goddamn straight man! How dare anyone believe otherwise! But nowadays I find myself impartial to the common misconception of who I am. I’ve had to correct people about my sexual preferences more times than I’d like to admit; watching as people fumble their way through awkward apologies as they try to explain how they came to such a conclusion. More often than not the reason behind their misconception of my preferences boils down to a statement like this:

‘You’re just different to most twenty six year old men that I know.’

Damn fucking straight I am. But just because I am different, that doesn’t necessarily mean that I am a homosexual. What it does mean is that I am a unique entity operating within a world that doesn’t always have the capacity to accept that which is different or unique. The differences that people seem to find confronting in me is my love for art, my vocabulary, my animated expressions, my willingness to accept myself as an emotional being, and my openness to a world of possibilities that extends beyond my own beliefs.

The fact that people find this confronting, different, or gay is a troubling prospect to this young writer. Even now as I pen this rather honest entry I can feel the judgement of my audience bearing down on me. Straight men don’t admit that they are thought to be homosexual. In fact many don’t admit to having feelings or an emotional state at all. If you were to take ten straight men, stick them in a room and ask them to talk about their emotions you’d find that at least nine, if not all ten, would venomously condemn the idea and label it as gay.

And therein that idea lays a very big problem. Men across the globe are so afraid of opening their soul to the world that any attempt to have them display emotion and be potentially labelled as weak causes them to openly slander the notion of expressing themselves. They think that to be a man they have to be free of the feminine concept of feelings. Bad idea. We as humans are emotional creatures whether we choose to admit it or not, and by bottling up those emotions we males are creating a whole world of mental health issues for ourselves. Don’t believe me? Statistics across the globe show year after year that men are three times as likely as to kill themselves than women. I repeat; men are three times as likely as women to commit suicide. And a large contributing factor to our willingness to end our lives is our inability to accept our emotions and communicate when we are struggling or feeling low.

We are so worried about being labelled as weak or gay that we are literally killing ourselves rather than seeking help. Does that not sound like a fucking ludicrous absurdity to anyone else?

So how do we fix such a startling problem in our society? Simple, it’s time that people start realising that real men are brave enough to talk about their issues and seek help. There is nothing weak about saying I’m not OK. But there is a weakness in denying ourselves the opportunity to heal. It took me a long time to figure this out, and in many ways I’m still learning how to be open and honest in relation to how I am feeling. I spent a long time believing that I had to be strong. I told myself that my emotions were weaknesses and I denied myself so many opportunities to be happy. I pushed myself to some truly horrible places and it wasn’t until I found writing that I managed to save myself from a grim fate. Through writing I found a way to express myself; to unlock that pressure valve inside my heart and release that pent up emotion that was pulling me down like a pair of concrete boots in an ocean of fear.

Even to this day I’m still learning that it is my emotional side that makes me who I am. When people fall in love they don’t do so based on aesthetics (although they do play a part in initial attraction) they do so based on emotion. Exterior beauty fades, but one’s emotive side is eternal. So if you’re not willing to accept yourself and the wondrous idiosyncrasies that make you who you are, how can you ever expect anyone else to love you? You can’t shut down that emotional side of your personality and expect to find happiness.

So let me get this straight. I’m not gay. But I am emotive, arrogant, aggressively creative, passionate, and about a million other things. I am different from the average twenty six year old man because I’m not afraid to be vulnerable; in fact I’m learning to thrive off of that vulnerability. In many respects I’m a narcissist. I have a terrible habit for revelling in that which makes me unique and constantly believing that I am the smartest person in the room. I am a heterosexual man, but I’m not insulted when someone insinuates that I am gay. Because what they really mean is that I am unlike what they consider to be normal. And in the strangest of ways I have learned to take that as a compliment.

Who the hell wants to be normal anyway?

Sticks & Stones

When I write I pour my heart and soul onto a page in an effort to create something magical, as well as to gain a better understanding of myself as a human being living within a universe of infinite potential. I’m not the kind of guy who sits down every day with a specified word count I want to achieve, producing dribble before sifting back through pages upon pages to find the diamonds in the rough. I’m the kind of writer who can go days or weeks without creating a thing, but when that jolt of inspiration strikes, I become lost in my own world as the words and phrases race through my head. I write what I want to write: about what inspires me, what saddens or angers me, and what challenges me on an emotional or intellectual level.

I don’t care if my work is confronting to some or ill received by others. I am a microcosm in my own right, and I will produce what is right for me. I pay no attention to the judgement of others. I’m not some kind of fucking superstar or centrefold who’s here to bend over backwards to appease every damn person I meet. Sure, I create manuscripts that I hope to sell, but when I take to this blog I do so to express myself freely without feeling the need to produce a marketable product or censor myself. So when judgement is laid and some arsehole standing in a glass house decides to start throwing judgement like a proverbial stone it takes every ounce of my strength not to rip out their fucking tongue.

-Hold on a moment. Let’s back it up just a little. Cause I’m about to fucking erupt. Breathe in. Hold. And breathe out…

…I’m a goddamn fucking wolf and if you try and piss me off I’m going to maim you. I will hunt you down and I will tear out your throat and bathe in your blood. I don’t care about the opinion of someone who thinks that they know who I am because they’ve read a few posts or because we are supposedly friends. What I write about, or who I choose to be as a man is at my discretion. If you’re going to start throwing stones and laying judgement, then you better make damn sure that you are infallible, because I won’t just smash your windows, I’ll burn your house down and dance upon the ashes.

“But Chris, you’re so self-destructive…”

Shut up. Just shut up. I’m sick of hearing it. It’s not I that I’m looking to destroy. It’s this pathetic world where you are so self-entitled that you dare lay judgement on another human being for expressing themselves. We live in a society rife with arseholes who feel that they have the God given right to critic and ridicule their fellow peers. The loudest voices belong to the overconfident, the ignorant, and the fucking mouth breathers. While the kind, the emotionally beautiful, and the innocent are down trodden and forgotten in a society overrun with arrogance. How dare you or anyone else pass judgement against another human being for trying to live their life and trying to make the best of what they have?

Seriously, who the fuck do you think you are? You judge someone because of the colour of their skin, the choices they make, the dreams they chase, or simply because they don’t conform with how you choose to exist. It’s pathetic and it’s sad. You need to grow the fuck up your saucer eyed piece of shit…

I’ll admit that I’ve never been the healthiest of men when it comes to mental wellbeing. At times I’ve pushed myself to breaking point and beyond. I’ve fallen apart and had my face stamped into the dusty earth by my own demons more times than I’d dare to count. I’ve starved myself, over eaten, cried in wardrobes over manuscripts and even set them alight. But I found myself in my writing; track back two posts and I wrote a goddamn love note to this craft. I was lost, and I found myself through literature and creativity. So to have my mental health or my character questioned because I have found the courage to express myself is sad and it’s heartbreaking. For that judgement to be passed by people that I once considered to be friends feels like a knife in the back.

I often say that I don’t care for the opinions of others. I’ve stated as such countless times over the course of this blog, and those who know me will be aware of my lack of interest in the sentiments of all but a select few. I could care less if someone wants to judge who I am and what I do. I’m not one to lose sleep over readers lost or friendships that have withered and died. Instead I grow angry that we live in a society so flawed, yet so willing to look down its nose at its peers. How can you honestly sit there and critic my life when yours is such a train wreck?

Any man or woman who vilifies someone for their beliefs is a bigot. Anyone who degrades another because of their inclinations is a dogmatist. And any person who ridicules somebody because of their dreams, their catalysts, or compulsions is a piece of shit.

Free your mind, let go of your hate and learn that this world is an extraordinarily beautiful place. Learn to love yourself, let go of your judgemental bullshit and find happiness in yourself. I’m trying to do exactly that every time I take to this page, every time I work on my manuscripts, and with every breath that I take. I’m the kind of man who will do anything for anyone. But if you cross me, if you judge me or try to destroy who I want to be, then I am a goddamn wolf who is going to rip you apart limb from limb and bury your remains my backyard.

Question Everything

The hardest part about being a writer is that you move through every day acutely aware that you have been blessed with a curse. You have been drawn to a lifestyle that will bring you great joy, and harrowing sorrow. In moments of great inspiration you will feel as though you have been touched with the hand of God; that something magical is alive and breathing inside of you. Your mind will operate with a euphoric mixture of imagination and passion, and your fingers will dance effortlessly across a keyboard as you produce the kind of prose that leaves a reader with an unending admiration for what you have produced.

Then the writer’s block kicks in and that hand of God turns into the devil’s talons piercing your flesh as he squeezes your heart until you feel faint. Words and phrases become caught in your head, and you move through life completely unaware of anything except your own inability to create.

You see the world differently to others. When you first start out putting pen to paper you begin to notice cracks in the fabric of society and small discrepancies in the stories that people tell. It’s like you suddenly find yourself in a room that looks almost perfect. The furniture is perfectly selected, the light fittings polished and the carpets unusually clean. But the wallpaper has started to fray ever so slightly at the cornices. At first the slight oddity doesn’t bother you. You can live with knowing that things aren’t quite right. It doesn’t matter that things aren’t perfect.

But then curiosity gets the better of you and you start picking at the wallpaper, peeling small strips from the walls. And the more you peel, the more curiosity eats away at your soul. Before you know it the walls are bare and you’re stripping back the carpet. You’re questioning everything about the integrity of the room. You want to see the walls stripped bare. You need to see the foundations. You can’t bear to stand not being able to reshape, redesign and rebuild. It’s not until you’ve torn back every inch of floor and wall coverings that you find yourself standing in a cold, lonely cell.

You’re blessed with a curse. Blessed with the gift of writing, of wanting to learn, to break down and rebuild. But you’re cursed with a desire to question everything and anything. You question the way people live. The bullshit stories they tell. The mistakes they make. The mediums they consume. The lies they tell themselves in order to sleep peaceably in their bed at night. But if you’re lucky, you find yourself asking the right questions too.

You start asking why we live in a world where killing is still common practice. Or why degradation of our fellow brethren occurs based on the colour of someone’s skin, their gender, or their beliefs. You start questioning why we are willing to accept a soul black as night and laced with glass over one of sheer beauty, just because the later isn’t as aesthetically pleasing on the surface. But the question that plagues you more than any other, the question that keeps you awake at night, is why the fuck can’t anyone else see just how misguided we have become?

You’ve pulled back the wallpaper of your room to find yourself alone in a prison cell, and you’re staring through the bars at the blissfully ignorant as they sit inside their own cages with a smile on their face believing that they are free. They claim that they question everything too, but they chose to do so from the safety of their comfort zones, their lack of true passion mocking everything that you believe in. They take to social media to post statuses on what they believe in, to click a like button to support a cause, but they do so because it’s easy. Because they are sheep, desperate for the approval of the herd. Because it is easier to question everything from the safety of a screen; only the bravest of us have the balls to take our beliefs to the streets.

So you write and you write, desperate to be heard. You want to grab a hold of people and scream in their ignorant faces ‘open your fucking eyes, peel back the wallpaper of your cell and let’s start a goddamn revolution.’ You know that if people would just turn down their televisions, unplug their earbuds, and give real literature a chance that you could change the world. You could teach them to ask not why someone should be allowed to wear a headdress in public, but why we as a society are so close minded that we feel the right to judge them for their beliefs? Or to ask why we accept war in foreign lands in the name of democracy, while we are so venomously opposed to those very ideals in our own land? Or why we have turned our backs on one another in pursuit of or own selfish wants and needs? When did we become a society of individuals so capable of stamping one another into the dirt to better ourselves? And why, Jesus, why the fuck isn’t anyone listening?

Then you realise that people are. That your readership may be small, but that with persistence it will grow, unfurling like a beautiful rose. You realise that with every article you write, every story you tell, you are helping those bold enough to listen to peel back the layers of their own comfort zones so that they too can begin to question everything. You’re helping them to identify and understand when they are being sold emotional placebos by snake oil peddlers so that they can tear down the superficial beauty of their worlds in order to create something truly exquisite through their own brevity.

An ode to you, the saviour of the ferryman’s intrepid passenger

350px-Charon_and_Psyche
‘I was lost, until I found myself inside of you.’
-Austin Carlile

The saddest part of it all was that I just didn’t realise how lost I truly was. I was an intrepid traveller traversing a mind as volatile as the river Styx. Guided by Charon, my soul was dying, withering like a flower with no hope to bloom. But you saved me. My heart and mind were caught in a vicious storm of chaos and self-loathing. I knew not who I was or what purpose my life served as I drifted between this existence and the next. I was naïve enough to pine for something greater than I, but I was too insignificant to be deserving of my dreams.

Then I heard your siren’s song. It rose from the depths of the earth, drowning out the cacophony of withering souls screaming for salvation by the river’s shoreline. I ordered Hades’ ferryman to steer towards your heavenly calls and he moored his vessel before you. You took my hand in yours as I disembarked and pulled me towards your bosom, your comfort became my solace and the savageness that had plagued my existence slowly faded. I was lost my love, but in that instant I found myself inside of you.

You showed me a world unlike anything I had ever imagined. A realm of possibilities where I was limited only by what my mind could conceive. The first time we became one I was so nervous, so unsure of myself. I fumbled as I gave life to your flesh, my thoughts disjointed, my fingers moving unsteadily as I fashioned your landscape. It was frantic and short lived, and when I stood back to admire what we had created I was stunned by the simplicity of our artwork. You were so beautiful and well-rehearsed; my awkwardness was barely concealed behind a wave of passion as phrases and irrational ideas raced through my head.

But you can never belong just to me. I know of your beauty and the intense lovingness of your touch better than most. But I can never possess you. Instead I am forced to share you with strangers the world over. Some would say that this is ill-fated love, that it is dangerous to a soul as complex as my own. They would snicker at my willingness to accept your infidelities and call me submissive and weak. But how can they ever comment on the intricacies through which I love every part of you, without first knowing the thrill of your all-encompassing embrace? I share you with others and my heart breaks when I see you answer their prayers or place their dreams before my own. But it is better to live with the knowledge that I am one of many than to never have known just how complete you make me. Oh my love, I was so lost aboard that demon’s ferry. I was a soul plagued with a life of nothingness, self-doubt casting fret channels in my brow. But now I have found myself inside of you.

I know not how to love another as deeply as I love you. You took a man parading himself as a wolf in sheep’s clothing and you allowed him to undress and expose his naked soul. You took a boy as afraid of living as he was of death and showed him that with your guidance he could create a legacy that would survive his mortal form. You took me in my broken state and you rebuilt me until I was whole. You taught me to relish in the beauty of the crack marks left in my flesh from pieces held together by something far stronger than any glue.

You found me aboard Charon’s ferry adrift on a river of fire and brimstone, and you kissed me with your lips, breathing life into my dying soul. I was so lost aboard that wretched craft, and now I have found what it means to be alive once again inside of you, my beautiful muse. I was once a fumbling amateur exploring the contours of your flesh, but through your patience and your guidance I have flourished into someone stronger than I ever thought I could be. Now every time we dance, when you place your palms upon my shoulder and whisper inspiration in my ear I wish that I could get down on my knees before you with reverence and pay you the penance that you truly deserve. For you are my beautiful muse; without you I would be so lost, so cold. But I have found myself inside of you. You have made this boy into a man. This man into a wolf. This flesh into a legacy. And you’ve taught me how to strip back the layers of my soul and stand naked before the world for all to see.

I was lost, until I found myself inside of you.

Dream on, Dreamer

Sometimes I just want to run. I just want to lace up my sneakers, pack my bags and just vanish without a trace. Sometimes I grow so tired by being me that it takes every ounce of strength just to function in the mess that we call a society, and I find myself begging for a way out. Sometimes it can become so crushing to know that I don’t fit in; I don’t belong, and that I will never be at one with my fellow man. Sometimes I wish that I had made better choices when I was younger. That I’d been more willing to accept authority, or that I’d learned to keep my mouth shut rather than constantly shooting from the hip. Sometimes I wish that I just learned to accept that neither the world, nor I, will ever live up to the unrealistic expectations I have created.

Sometimes I wish that I hadn’t screwed up my finances so bad in my youthful ignorance that I could just book a one way ticket to anywhere and leave the man I have become behind. I’m a man of contrasts, a writer of juxtapositions, and sometimes I wish that I would catch the break that I lay awake at night and pray for. I often find myself calling out to Jesus, Allah, Moses, and whoever else is listening. But every single time I do, I wish that the prophets had more to say to me than those heinous words dream on, dreamer.

For this is the life I have chosen. The life of a dreamer. A man who moves throughout the world caught between a bleak reality and a vivid imagination and ideals of what could be. I’m too old to connect with the latest trends, yet too young to admire much of the classics. Too intelligent to accept popular culture, yet not clever enough to consume more intellectual mediums. I’m too stubborn to change who I am, yet I’m far too bitter not to try. I’m too bold to know my limits, yet fear them with every ounce of my being.

So I tread the path of a dreamer; accomplishing nothing except within my own head. I dream of grandeur and a life of fulfilment. I live a life of regret. I imagine my future to be bright. I see my name on bookshelves, my life filled with art and creativity. I picture myself living in exotic lands, spending my years travelling the earth in search of continued inspiration. But my present sees me grounded. I travel the same route every day to a job that leaves me feeling incomplete. Instead of exploring new cities and countries to search for inspiration, I find myself searching my head for a way out of the rut I have created. And when I find nothing I turn to the prophets for guidance, cursing them when they whisper in response to my pleas dream on, dreamer. You haven’t earned it yet.

Sometimes I wish that it would rain. I wish that the heavens would open and cleanse my skin. I dream of that moment where I am caught in a storm so vicious that my pulse quickens and my bones feel as though the sudden chill is cutting them like glass. I pray for the destruction, for the waters to rise up against my throat. Instead I find myself surrounded by an earth so parched that every step I take causes its crust to crack and splinter. I’m wandering endlessly in a barren wasteland, driven by my thirst for something more. Something that seems forever out of reach.

I fanaticise about a world where we worship true art and its creators; where we care not for the status of celebrity, or for the shocking and creatively mundane. I pray for a life where I don’t have to loathe the works of fraudsters cashing in on trends and calling it art. I hope that we can learn to admire true beauty once again, and realise that making ourselves seem attractive on a visual level does not hide the blackness of our hearts. I wish that we could love one another for who we really are, not who we pretend to be through status updates and edited photographs.

But most of all I wish that I didn’t have to dream of these things. That the absence of happiness in my life didn’t leave me with an unending desire to vanish and start anew. I wish that I could travel forward in time and find the version of me who is content. I would ask him how he did it. How he learned to accept the flaws in himself and his world. I would take that knowledge and I would learn from it, so that I didn’t dream of packing my bags to run.

I wish that for once when I called upon the heavens for answers they didn’t mock me as they whisper dream on, dreamer. You haven’t earned it yet.

Subatomic

‘Do something less surreal? I ain’t big enough yet, I got to keep impressing people.’
– Shadrach Kabango.

Today I received notification that I would be attending the upcoming TEDX event in Brisbane’s South Bank on December 6th. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the initiative, TEDX is a non for profit offshoot of TED (Technology Entertainment Design), a ground breaking forum where great minds come together to celebrate ‘Ideas worth spreading’. For an aspiring author to be invited to attend such a prestigious event is a huge honour. For said author to be someone with a God complex who constantly refers to himself as a wolf with a bloodlust to savage the industry he loves is something rather exceptional. To be permitted the opportunity to be one of three hundred attendees at the event is a momentous opportunity that will just about close out a chaotic and highly rewarding 2014 for this blogger, author, social commentator, and student.

Sometimes one can become bogged down by the now. Living in a daily grind we often feel stagnant in life, and it’s not until we cast a little hindsight over our journey that we realise how much has changed, and how much we truly have to be thankful for. When I started this blog I was in a bad way. I was mentally and physically unwell and couldn’t seem to break out of the vicious downward spiral that had me caught up in perpetual self-loathing and anger. I was broken, I was bitter, and I was so desperate for a way out that after an extended hiatus from writing I turned to my craft for help. I wrote my first post and I poured my heart and soul onto a page. I wrote and I wept. And as the words tumbled from my mind, I found the inner confidence that had eluded me for so long.

Fast forward two years and that confidence has taken me further than I ever believed possible. I’m still not a published author, but my writing has taken me to some extraordinary places and I’m incredibly thankful for everything that I have achieved. It’s so easy for us to become so fixated on an end result that we fail to take into account the beauty of the journey itself. It would be easy for me to beat myself up for failing to see my novels make it into print – despite setting myself that goal every single New Year’s Eve for as long as I can remember. But the truth is that I have come so far from the broken boy who sat at his computer begging for solace from his own demons.

In the past twelve months I have travelled across the globe, met some incredible people, shaken hands with royalty, dined with literary alumni, sat in on a firearms demonstration by the CIA, and have now been invited to witness a collective of brilliant minds take to a stage and inspire the world to be great. It’s a list of experiences that I will forever cherish, and none of this would have occurred if it wasn’t for me taking that first step and writing that initial blog.

There are times when I feel like giving up on my dreams. Some days I wake up and feel as though I have spent years running myself into the ground for nothing. I feel as though by not having a book sitting on shelves in bookstores around the world I have somehow failed myself. But then I stop and look at just how far I have come, the experiences that I have been fortunate enough to have through writing, and the endless possibilities that lay before me and I find myself more determined than ever to create. I’m not stagnant. I’m moving, but I’m doing so in an industry that has no clearly defined path. The literary industry isn’t as clear cut as most. There are no sure-fire paths to success. If you want to make it as an author you need talent, grit, and a whole lot of faith and luck.

The path of an author is best identified as that of a subatomic particle; you are in a state of constant movement, yet completely motionless at the same time. You’re movement is your continued development of your craft, it’s the relationships you forge, the events you attend, literature you consume, opportunities you seize, and so on. But you’re motionless until your work hits a shelf. And sometimes that paradoxical state of motionless movement, that subatomic particle like state can frustrate. But the process is beautiful, the frustration so enthralling, and the gift of being able to create so intrinsically rewarding that you would never want to live any other way.

I’m a writer and I’m a wolf. I have an overactive mind and dreams of changing the world. It seems only fitting that the context of the TEDX forum I am attending is Question Everything, something that I as an aggressive creative type, do on a daily basis. To be fortunate enough to attend the event is a huge honour, and another milestone in my development as a writer and as a man. And with 2014 fast drawing to a close after so many wonderful moments, I cannot wait to see what the next twelve months has in store for me.

Renacer

frost-flower-
‘There is no flower like love; no misfortune like hate.’
-James ‘Buddy’ Neilsen.

I’ve really been struggling with this blog lately. After a phenomenal run a few months ago that saw me producing a continuous stream of updates, I’ve fallen back into that creative lull that sees me producing sporadic entries that aren’t necessarily my best efforts. But all hope is not lost. While I’ve been creatively stagnant on this platform, I have still been writing a lot. My novels are coming along beautifully, and I’m learning more and more about myself and my craft every time I take to my computer.

But when it comes to this page, I’ve lost my voice. My confidence has deserted me, and I’ve been left sitting alone in a wasteland of half formed ideas and unjust hate for everyone and everything. There’s blood on my hands and hate in my mind. I just don’t understand why.

Sometimes blogging feels like a dying art form. Sometimes it feels like people don’t care about real talent or grit anymore. We live in a disposable world where people want instantaneous satisfaction and don’t have the patience required to consume literature. Society would rather watch a seven second vine video and glorify the inappropriate antics of a halfwit than consume the rich and highly rewarding posts of bloggers across the globe. Some of the most incredible pieces of writing I have ever witnessed have been on blogs that receive a dismal amount of hits, while many of the most creatively void videos and photographs on social media become worldwide sensations. We live in a world where we worship instant success and fame. If someone has to strive to achieve their dreams through grit and determination, we automatically assume they just don’t have what it takes to be great.

I guess that you could say lately I’ve been feeling defeated. What’s the point of trying to produce something beautiful if people are more interested in the obscene? What’s the point of trying to redefine a world as an artist, when it is more interested in the idea of creating instantaneous celebrities with an expiry date of seven seconds?

I write for myself. I always have. And I write because it’s an incredibly cathartic process that allows me to open my heart and mind to a world that I often feel disconnected from. As paradoxical as it sounds, I isolate myself and sit at my computer lost in my own head, so that I can connect with the macrocosm surrounding me. I believe that literature and words have the power to change the world, and although I write to overcome my own insecurities, a small portion of my soul yearns to be a part of that intellectual movement.

Yesterday one of my favourite lyricists made a bold decision to open up to the world about the man he is verses the façade he has portrayed to the world for over a decade. Buddy Neilsen (the man whose name has appeared on many epigraphs on this site) revealed to the world that his sexuality cannot be clearly defined by the two poles of straight, or gay. He opened his soul and said that he has spent the best part of his life struggling to understand his sexual orientation, and as a result has struggled with depression and alcohol abuse. The revelation left me stunned. I have been a fan of his band Senses Fail for a decade. Ever since their first album Let It Enfold You (a masterful work that draws heavy influence from poetry and literature. Even the title comes from a Bukowski poem) I have felt inspired by the lyrics that Neilsen has growled, screamed and crooned.

To find that a man as talented as Neilsen could be so plagued by demons left me feeling oddly inspired. While I don’t wish to celebrate the years of emotional havoc that Neilsen endured before he found inner peace, I believe that there is something quite beautiful in knowing that someone so successful, albeit in a chaotic and somewhat destructive sense of the word, could be so human. In a world where we often place celebrities on pedestals and almost justify and encourage their destructive behaviour, it is a wonderful thing to see a man come to terms with who he truly is. To stand up and take responsibility for the self-destruction he bought upon himself and finally allow himself a chance to be at peace.

Senses Fail’s latest offering Renacer (see what I did there) takes on an even more eloquent feel now that Neilsen has accepted his own nature and felt comfortable to reveal that to the world. The title, Renacer is a Spanish word meaning to be born again, and as Neilsen growls his way through soulful lyrics denouncing himself for his own shortcomings and yearnings for inner harmony, one can feel the passion for life, for acceptance, and for his art interlaced through the often brutal screams. He really is a man, just like me, plagued by his own demons who writes and sings as a way of creating cohesion between his tortured soul and the universe.

But I digress. The point of all this is that through Buddy’s revelation, through his battles with sexuality, depression, and alcohol abuse, he has inspired me to create art of my own. And yesterday, through his willingness to stand before his legion of fans and denounce his own demons and accept his strengths he has once again inspired me to write. While I will never know the frustration of battling with sexuality, I do know the toll of fighting that most heinous of battles with mental illness and depression. It’s the kind of battle you never truly win, you’ll never wake up and realise that you no longer have an affliction for self-loathing and hate. Instead you take every day for what it is. You accept the beauty of the moments afforded to you, and you learn to push through when your mind feels like a tomb.

Art is an incredible thing. Whether you paint, sing, write, draw, build, destroy, or whatever else. Art is the glue that binds together the fabric of our souls and allows us as a society to collectively push the envelope of what we believe is possible. Through writing, singing and performing Buddy Neilsen managed to develop an understanding of who he really is, and the result of his creative process is some of the most lyrically rich music produced within the hardcore music scene. But the truth behind his new found inner peace was that he never once sought to create music for fame or success. He sought to better understand himself and grow as a human being. His honesty, imperfections and strengths shines through in his works and the fans and the fame are merely a by-product of his dedication and devotion.

So while at times it can feel like blogging is a dying art form in this era of social media and disposable content, I need to take a step back from my violent hatred of talentless consumption and realise that those mediums will never last. There will always be Facebook, Vines, Twitter, and whatever else, but their content will be consumed and disregarded by a legion of users who show indifference to their creator. But writing, and music, and art will last forever. The words that I write today will stand the test of time and be remembered forever by the people that they truly touch. When a writer becomes more concerned with competing for likes, shares, and mass consumption they risk losing sight of what really matters; and that is the catalysts and compulsions behind what they do. I write to fight off the demons of my mind, and to connect with a world that often leaves me broken and confused.

It’s not about likes; it’s not about competing with alternate mediums or artists. It’s about me and my story. It’s about creating something that I am proud of. Something that I believe in. Money, fame, and all that stuff are just potential by-products. I’ll write to the day my heart stops whether I make a million dollars or whether I make none. And when I find myself beat down and sitting in that barren wasteland of broken thoughts and ill-fated projects I’ll remember that no matter how creatively fragile I may feel, my writing is what defines me. As Buddy Neilsen says ‘it doesn’t matter if you fall down. Get the fuck back up.’

Society Trap

When you stop and actually think about it we live in a really fucked up world. There’s war, poverty, segregation, racial vilification, and about a million other atrocities and reasons as to why we as a species are faltering. But perhaps one of the greatest reasons that we are so screwed, and quite possibly one of the reasons we are often so bitter, is the concept of what is socially acceptable and our subsequent adherence to the machine that is society. We wake up every day and put on clothes that make us feel uncomfortable or oppressed, so that we can commute in cars that we are in debt for, to a job that we hate. And we do this just so we can pay for said car, clothes, and whatever else we have chosen to purchase in our consumerist based culture.

We have fucked ourselves into this belief that we need to conform to the idea of being part of a whole; of being part of a machine that tells us how to act, what to wear, to watch, listen to, or even do for a job. And now we trudge through the mediocrities of an existence that is beneath our true potential and try to convince ourselves that this is what we want. It’s sad. It’s sad by definition. And it’s even sadder when the realisation that you are selling yourself short at every goddamn opportunity settles into your mind. You fucked up. I did too. In fact we all did. And as each day passes and another person sells themselves out for a quick buck, the society trap claims another victim.

I want to write and I want to inspire. That’s my dream. To create literature that makes people believe in something greater than themselves; even if it’s just for a fleeting moment. And I want to entertain. I want readers to feel when they consume something that I have produced. Be that fear, love, admiration, loathing, or whatever else. If you as a reader are touched by my words, then I’m achieving something grand. Writing is my passion. My life. And I have goals, I have ambitions, and I have dreams of where my writing can take me. But just like so many others, I sold out to the society trap a long time ago. Now I spend every waking moment searching my way out of this mess.

If you are going to be an adult you need a car, nice clothes, and a roof over your head. Also, you must be unafraid to splash money at a moment’s notice in order to impress. I told myself these things for years, just like I’m sure many others did. I racked up credit card debts and loans, and forced myself into a financial cuckold because that’s what the society trap told me. Burn. Burn it all. Take every ounce of your wage and consume. Its sickly sweet voice would whisper in my ears. So I did. I financially fucked myself up till the point where my dreams had to be put on hiatus so that I could chase money. And when I earned that money I burned through it too; and so the cycle went on and on and fucking on.

I’m a writer. That’s my craft, my passion, and the thing I will bust my arse to succeed at. Yet because of my willingness to abide to what society sees fit I find myself spending my days handling complaints from fucking dickheads who fail to possess the capacity to see beyond their own selfish needs. I am paid a wage to liaise with individuals who can’t see their potential to be so much more, if only they just had the sense to open their eyes and see then world for what it really is. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: ladies and gentlemen, it’s time to free your mind. Open your eyes to your reality and understand where you truly are, and just how far you could reach if you actually took a risk.

Risk…

…That’s what this all comes down to. That’s why so many of us are stuck in this mind-fuck of a conundrum. Because we fear risk. We fear change. And we fear failure. It’s better to blindly consume to support our own failing social structure than it is to stand up and say ‘I can be more than this.’ And by more I’m not talking about being earning more money, or being a celebrity, or owning an expensive car or home. Fuck all of that stuff. Fuck the money. Fuck the status. Fuck the car and home. That’s all consumerist horseshit. What I’m talking about is being more tolerant, more spiritually or emotionally enlightened, more in tune with yourself and your passions. I’m talking about making a conscious decision to harness the intestinal fortitude that lies dormant within you to say ‘today I am going to chase my dreams. Today I am going to be the fucking hero of my own movie.’

It’s possible. It really is. Take a look at the people that you respect: the artists, the singers and songwriters, athletes, writers, and everyone else who have made themselves a success. What do they all have in common? At some point they have made a conscious decision to piss into the wind and fight back against the society trap and create their own future. They have followed their dreams, defied the naysayers, the so called conventional wisdom, and using nothing more than talent, grit, and unwavering determination they have become something great. That’s not to say that it was easy. Because it never is. It’s our failures that define us as individuals. Our ability to scrape ourselves up off of the floor when we’ve been beat down time and time again is what creates the character required to be a success. Those people you respect: they have had their arse kicked by life time and time again. But they’ve never given up. They’ve never bowed down and accepted anything less than what they want and what they deserve.

There is greatness within all of us. We just have to open our minds and realise that we don’t have to blindly accept the society trap. We don’t have to spend our entire lives screwing ourselves into a way of thinking that leaves us crippled with debt and emotionally and intellectually unfulfilled. Yes, we are force feeding our own bloated stomachs with the constructs of a system that leaves us wanting, but you can grab hold of the catheter and start to pull it from your throat. It’s going to hurt like a bitch. You’re going to feel it every inch of the way, as you drag it further and further from your body. But you can do it. You can become one of those people who rises above the slush pile of your own missed opportunities and achieves everything you have ever wanted.

All you have to do is make a conscious decision to chase your dreams. Be more than you can be. And live the life that you want to lead. Jesus, if have to spend the rest of my life trapped in this bullshit, then I’ll probably blow my fucking brains out. I have more to offer. And so do you. Be the hero of your own movie. Refuse to accept the society trap.

Brand

‘You want to win the war? Know what you’re fighting for’
-Corey Taylor.

It turns out that I’ve been approaching this blogging thing all wrong. Driven by emotion and relying on fits of blind rage, narcissism and brief moments of placated happiness to fuel my creativity, I’ve never really stopped to take note of the brand that I was creating. I saw myself as a singularity; an individual comprising of unique thought processes and idiosyncrasies that could never be accurately labelled through a title or brand. I mean, I’m a man goddamn it! I’m no fucking brand….

…But in the eyes of many that’s exactly what I am. See, publishers and agents are always on the hunt for new talent to represent and (hopefully) turn a profit off of their investments in. Regardless of whether I want to be typecast or not, they will forever try to pigeonhole me and my writing based off what I say and do. When my work is bought before them for review, they are not just taking a surface level look at my writing. They are assessing my character and my brand through the tales I chose to tell and the manner in which I do so. They want someone they can market, so they need to be able to define who I am and what I stand for through labelling me.

Case and point: my vulgarity. I swear a lot. And oftentimes when I do so it is to really drive home a point I’m trying to make. But for some, that vulgarity can be offensive and see me labelled as a foul mouthed kid with a lack of respect.

-Trust me. I’ve heard that before. And if we are being totally honest it’s a half truth. I’m arrogant as sin and about as foul mouthed as they come. But I’m all about respect. You’ve just got to earn it.

So then, what kind of brand have I established for myself over the duration of running this blog? Well, one that isn’t great. I’ve painted myself as an emotionally unstable narcissist with a deep routed hate for others. I’ve established myself as a wolf with a penchant for bloodlust and a tongue laced with acid. According to this site I’m an arsehole. And while my own bouts of self-loathing ultimately allow me to grow and develop as a writer, they act as a red flag to anyone considering investing in my work. I mean, if you had outlay time, money, and effort on an up and coming author or artist, would you realistically be willing to take a gamble on someone so ready to destroy everything on a whim? Shit, I wouldn’t.

Which means that it’s time to reinvent myself; time to pull on my surgeon’s mask, clasp a scalpel in my hand and intricately reshape the flesh of this page. So a few weeks ago I did exactly that, I fleshed out the best and the worst that I had to offer and I wrote pieces that took harsher and harsher views on myself until it came to a head in The Flood. I built upon Aristotle’s concepts of dramatic construction and I bought about my own assassination of character. And then I stopped and waited for the gravity of my writing to settle as the Chris Nicholas of old lay broken for the world to see. I fended off constant questioning as to whether I was feeling alright and pushed through awkward conversations about mental health with people who could never understand what I was trying to achieve. I wanted to quite literally prove that what didn’t kill me was only going to make me stronger. I just had to take myself to the edge of my own sanity one last time and know that I was crazy enough to jump, yet strong enough to walk away.

From there I waited for two weeks. Watching the number of people frequenting my site fluctuate in my absence before I finally decided to post something new. I waited because it seemed only fitting that if I was to rebrand and expand my own mind and diversify the nature of my postings that there needed to be a definitive line in the sand that noted where I was and where I am heading next.

So then the question becomes where am I heading next?

Somewhere positive. Somewhere grand. Somewhere exciting and fresh. I’m taking steps to make peace with my past so that I can move forward and enjoy my future. Someone close to me recently asked if I had ever been truly happy in life and the question hit me like a sucker punch from a heavyweight boxer. The truth is that I have known great happiness in most aspects of my existence, but I’ve always placed so much emphasis on my lack of continual successes as a writer that I’ve never been happy in my career. At times that frustration and disappointment has spilled over into other areas of my life and I’ve become bitter, twisted, and self-destructive. My brand as a writer was reflective of this for a long time. I was angry, unnecessarily aggressive, and fighting against anything I could just for the sake of fighting. I was burning myself out just to sustain the anger I thought that I needed to be creative.

I spent a long time failing to realise that the world is far larger than I can comprehend. I spent years believing that there was nothing more important than what I thought and felt, and the struggles I faced on a daily basis. I dedicated space on this site to trivial issues that seemed so grand, but were in reality just hurdles on my journey to success. But now I’m opening my eyes and seeing the world for what it really is. And by doing so, by understanding that this world owes me nothing, I’m more determined than ever to stop fighting for the sake of it and work my arse off to achieve my goals.

Whereas my brand was once disjointed, it is now focused and determined. I’m still arrogant and headstrong. But with dreams as large as mine I need every ounce of that stubbornness to succeed. I’m driven by passion, raw emotion, and the occasional spate of narcissism, but I’m no longer foolish enough to allow myself to become consumed by feelings that I ultimately must remain in control of. I’m the best writer to tell my stories; there is no one more capable and qualified to deliver the messages I have for this world. And I’m still a mother fucking wolf. But unlike the past I now realise that I’m not designed to hurt and maim. I’m not required to fight every damn fight that comes my way and I’m not stupid enough to tear myself apart out of frustration or boredom.

I’m a wolf capable of causing great destruction, but my true strength comes in my new found restraint. I know how to grab an opponent by the throat and tear the life out of them, but I chose to select my battles. I fight to protect those that are close to me or advance my own cause. There’s no honour in fighting every battle and living a life of constant anger. But there is honour in rebranding oneself as something more than the enraged boy I once was.

You can’t truly embrace the future until you can learn from the past and enjoy living in the present. So my rebranding begins now. It starts with clear, concise direction moving forward. Every post on here, every chapter I add to my novels, every damn poem or song I scribble in my notebooks hones my skills and gets me closer than ever before to becoming a published author.

There’s a line in the sand. Mark it. From this point on everything changes.