Tag: blog

Writer’s Laze

For someone who is still finding their way within the literary industry I get an unusually large number of people who email through asking for advice on how to make their own websites more successful. It’s a weird concept to me, especially considering that in the grand scheme of things I have a fairly small about of followers here at Renegade Press. Don’t get me wrong; I’m flattered that someone would ever consider reaching out for advice. I just think that there are probably a few hundred thousand minds that are trust worthier than mine to seek assistance from. Nevertheless whenever such an email arrives I try to find the time to read through a few posts and provide what little constructive feedback that I can to an author not too dissimilar from myself.

While some excerpts require a little more structure or clarity of thoughts, most posts that I read are great. In fact some make me a little worried about my future. I’m still trying to establish myself as a writer and yet the people who are asking me for advice are already out producing me. Not that that is a bad thing; I’m an arrogant piece of work who wants to be the best. I revel in the fact that there are still a myriad of authors ahead of me. It keeps me hungry and pushes me to create bigger and bolder pieces. But for all of the positivity and acclimations I bestow upon these bloggers there’s one reoccurring issue that I tend to point out in the works of others, as well as myself…

…Swearing.

We writers like to believe that we have this insanely broad vocabulary that we can call upon at a moments notice to create poignant and emotive prose. Yet more often than not we resort to vulgarity to drive home a point. We create pieces that butcher the language we love by using lowbrow phrases like fucking hate rather that loathe or abhor. Or we use terrible clichéd expressions like fuck you to allow our reader to understand our angst and frustrations. While it can feel good to write such unrefined prose, it is ultimately lazy and tends to alienate your reader.

-Actually let’s stop for a second because that one is a real pet peeve of mine. Simply writing fuck you is never clever, nor witty, nor anything else. It’s hands down the laziest expression one can use to display angst. No writer anywhere should use such overused, tired, pathetic excuse of a statement. It cheapens what you are trying to accomplish and makes you look like a second rate hack. Got it? Good. Let’s continue…

There are many pitfalls to writing and there are so many factors that can influence the work you produce. Your mood; the music you listen to, films you watch, people you associate with, books you read, exercise, exposure to media, and just about anything else has the power to alter how you approach your work. There’s no exact science to what we do, and the effects that our circumstances have on our craft can range from inspiring creative outpourings during which you produce an endless stream of high quality work, to writer’s block; the dreaded emotional ailment that sees you unable to even form a coherent paragraph. But perhaps the most troubling condition that can befall a writer (young or old) is writer’s laze.

It’s this state of creative complacency that sees potentially great pieces become disjointed postings that just miss the mark they’re intending to strike. More often than not the manifestation of this laze is witnessed through a writer reverting to profanity.

But Chris, you swear all the time…

Yeah I do. And in the interest of complete disclosure it must be said that my excessive use of profanity has become a point of contention with some of my readership. For every email I receive asking for a critique there’s another saying a reader disagrees with my liberal tongue. But in spite of vulgarity’s ability to destroy prose or an argument, in some instances cussing has the ability to further a manuscript or blog post. However achieving such an outcome requires talent. It needs to be used sparingly and needs to be inserted into a piece of work with the utmost precision if it is to further the intrigue or emotional engagement of the reader. It’s lazy to rely on cussing to drive passion into a piece, however it’s extremely wondrous to read the work of an author with a deft mind who can utilize a word like fuck to create a level of heightened understanding within their readership.

For someone who swears as much as I do it can be easy to slip into a perpetual case of writer’s laze. It’s easy to show emotion through profanity, but it’s so much more engaging when a writer produces clean and concise literature that blindsides the reader or creates an emotional outpouring without tramping out the same busted up profanes being uttered in school yards. In some respects it’s a writer’s ability to detach themselves from their writer’s laze and reliance on cussing that separates an amateur from the very best. Profundity can be found in the most structurally fragile piece of work; readerships can be established upon the scaffolding of semi-coherent ideas. But the alienation of a reader through an over abundance of swearing can take a masterpiece and turn it into just another piece of shit.

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.

Paper Trails

People always tell me that I’m too hard on myself. That I push myself to breaking point and never take the time to stop and reflect on how much I have achieved. It’s a fair point. I’m my own harshest critic. I have been known to beat myself up over every little fault in my work; when I finish a piece I want to be able to stand back and tell myself that I am completely satisfied with what I have produced. I don’t want to create second-rate dribble that I as the creator find shaky or mundane. If I’m not confident or inspired by what I’ve written, no one else will be either.

I’m hard on myself because I care. Because in many aspects of my life I have a tendency to slip into this near enough is close enough mentality that threatens to derail my dreams by way of complacency. If I’m not pushing I’m settling. And if I’m settling I’m giving up.

When this blog first came to fruition I tried to compete with other writers. I thought that the best way to ignite my own creativity and success was to challenge that of those who had come before me. If someone wrote two posts a week, I wanted to write three. If they had fifteen followers, I wanted thirty. If a writer was better than I was I wanted to break their knees and watch their reputation crumble. But over time I have come to realize that the only person I should be competing with is myself.

There is no one else on the face of this earth who is capable of writing like I do. There’s no one who has lived through the same experiences, no one who has felt the same heartache, elation, fears or successes as I have. To compare myself to someone who has lived through a different set of circumstances and witnessed the world through another pair of eyes is unfair and idiotic.

So rather than draw unfair comparisons with my fellow writer, I strive to challenge myself. I have pushed myself harder and harder until now I finally feel as though my talent is starting to catch up with my heart. I’m producing fewer posts on this site as of late, but I have never been more proud to attach my name to my work. Yet as I’ve become more proficient in my craft I’ve faced more and more questions about my future and my finances.

‘You’re a writer? You must make a fortune! How much do you sell your articles for?’

…Ah, they’re free. I don’t make a single cent from this site. In fact, my finances are pretty fucked if we are being totally honest. I’m a writer not a goddamn accountant.

The questioning drives me crazy. I didn’t start writing and blogging to make money. I started because I was a very sad and lonely boy who needed to find his place in the world. Sure, I’ve achieved some pretty amazing things in the past few years. I’ve met some brilliant minds, won a few competitions and published a novel; but I’ve never really chased money. I’ve never felt comfortable selling my soul to follow the paper trails that lead to commercial success; rather I’ve been content to forge my own path through the great seas of literature.

It sounds crazy doesn’t it? I want to make a living out of being a writer but I’m not actively pursuing monetary gain. At a surface level there’s a flaw in my logic. I want to make writing my profession, but to do so I need to make some money. The very definition of a profession is a paid occupation that usually involves formal training or qualifications. But my theory is this: don’t chase the money. Chase the dream and the money will follow.

Society tends to place too much importance on paper, copper, nickel and zinc and not enough on intrinsic happiness and emotional freedom. We base our judgment of a man or woman on their fiscal worth rather then their characteristics and heart, meaning we’ve unconsciously created a skewed perception of success that is limited purely to pecuniary wealth.

I wouldn’t say I came from nothing; my parents provided a stable upbringing for my siblings and I. But I’m a dreamer with a streak of naivety that has seen me make so many poor financial decisions that there’s been times when I have struggled just to feed myself. I know first hand what it’s like to starve for your craft. When I first left my family home I used to go two days without eating just so I could attend university. And while I still haven’t obtained a degree I’d wager that I’m a better writer than anyone with one. I would back my hunger over another writer’s talent and piece of paper any day. Regardless of whether you are rich or poor, young or old, man or woman, I can take your world and tear it down using nothing more than a piece of paper and a pen.

…I can see you sitting there nodding your head. You’re probably thinking that there’s a bunch of nice analogies here. You might even agree with the skewed perceptions of society and the importance we place on financial wealth. Maybe you’ve even had one of those good for you thoughts roll through your mind. But you’re probably also asking yourself what the point of this post is…

I’ve been feeling pretty down lately because I lost sight of my own vision. I’ve been beating myself up over the fact that despite all of my achievements I haven’t really made it in a conventional sense yet. I’m still busting my arse in a job that isn’t what I want to be doing, and I’m still trying to create a name for myself amongst a plethora of authors from across the globe. I started using money as a measuring stick of success and realized that I’m failing miserably in that respect.

But when I ignore money and instead remember to chase my dreams and focus on bettering myself with every post that I write, I realize that I’m succeeding beyond all my expectations. When this blog started in 2012 I was a boy with a goal and a fractured mind. Now I’m a man with a published novel and a fire in my heart that can’t be extinguished.

Fuck following paper trails. Focus on the dream and let the money take care of itself because hunger will always out work money and talent. My hunger helped me publish a novel by age twenty-six and you can mark my words that it’ll see my name on a best sellers list before too long. When I do finally achieve my goals and turn a little profit off of what I’m doing I’ll be able to look back at the hardships I’ve endured and know that it was all worth it. But until then paper, copper, nickel and zinc are meaningless commodities to an eater of worlds.

The Eater of Worlds

Before we begin I want your undivided attention. Take a moment to turn off the television, cut the music, and shut down that second page of your web browser. Focus on me. Just for a few minutes.

Imagine that we’re face-to-face. You’re staring me dead in the eye while I talk. But I’m not talking at you, or to you. We’re communicating at a deeper level than that. I’m speaking yes, but the words are filtering through your ears and into your mind to a place in your subconscious that you never knew existed. Focus. Look into my eyes. Look beyond them. Look past the characteristic hollowness they portray and witness my soul. There’s no pretense here. There’s no hiding. There’s just you and I. You are in the presence of a wolf and a world eater who masquerades himself as a writer, and he’s showing you his benevolence.

I don’t often write about writing. An interesting notion considering the whole purpose of this site is to explore my own immersion into the world of literature. Instead I write posts covering a wide array of emotions. I write about my anger, my isolation, my loves, successes, failures, and about a million other things. I’ve written about my arrogance numerous times. I’ve spoken of my lower moments and battles with depression. I’ve penned pieces on racial acceptance and unification. I’ve labeled myself as a world eater. I’ve called myself a wolf. And for a long time I referred to myself as the best damn writer you’ve never heard of.

But I feel as though I’ve never really explained myself. I’ve accepted vulnerability and openly acknowledged my shortcomings. But the concept of the wolf, and the strength garnered from the world eater label has never really been fleshed out in public. They have been topics I’ve touched upon momentarily during diatribes of disillusioned prose. But I’ve never elaborated because they are titles I place great reverence on. To me they’re more than mere monikers I use to illustrate myself to my readership. They are symbols of strength; marques of success earned through battles with personal demons. In many respects they are ideas that saved me.

Nonetheless I think I’m ready to share their meaning with you…

I’ve always told myself that I’m different. I’ve strived towards becoming a distinct singularity that stands outs amongst a sea of my peers. At points this yearning has led to moments of elation and great success, but it’s also left me isolated and alone more often than I would care to admit. My desire to become unique means that I struggle to gel with conventional education, or conventional thinking; I mean, why would I want to learn how to perceive the world through the eyes of structured learning? Why would I want to learn how to ascertain black from white when all I see is kaleidoscope of colour?

I’m a creative soul with a hunger to learn but the attention span of a six year old. I’ve got at least three manuscripts under construction at any given point. Then there are the university studies, half constructed blog posts, and ideas still brewing in the back of my mind. I’m an intellectual dog chasing cars, running down one idea, only to change course and pursue something else.

I live in my head, just as I know many of my readers do. But I’m so often engrossed with myself and my aspirations of grandeur that when I do manage to look up at the world around me I feel disconnected and resentful. I don’t understand much of the world, nor does it appear to understand me. Which is why for all of my desires to be different, one of my greatest fears is that I am totally alone in my thoughts. I believe in humanity. I believe in freedom of expression, in love, respect and life. I don’t care for labels of colour or creed. And someone’s financial or sociopolitical stature bears no weight in my judgment of his or her character. But when you are a twenty six year old male trying to carve out a niche as an author you are expected to at least fain interest in such things.

For a time this left me feeling broken. I often felt as though the world was eating me alive. I didn’t care about which celebrity was in a sex tape, or who was dating whom. I couldn’t pretend like there was importance in television shows designed to create instant superstars with an expiry date of ten minutes. I cared about people who were trying to make a difference: artists and philanthropists striving to be a beacon of light in a darkened world. Yet even as I drew inspiration from these muses I felt this intense pressure to conform to the ideas and interests of others. That oppression led to depression and my life became a constant battle to exert myself.

So I started writing to quell a few inner demons and fulfill a desire to be different. But the more that I wrote and the more that I began to embrace my vulnerabilities the more that I realized I was never as alone as I thought. Through writing I’ve met people just like me from countries near and far who believed that they were isolated and alone, but found strength and unity through art. Their strengths and their support ultimately became my vigor and reason to create. Through the kind words and support of strangers through this website I became brave enough to stand before a world I thought was trying to consume me and be naked and exposed. Through writing I learned how to swallow fear and uncertainty and use it to inspire others.

The moniker of the world eater is simply this: I refuse to be broken again by a world of differing ideals simply because I believe in the better angels of our nature. I refuse to feel inadequate or undeserving, and I believe in my inner strength to overcome the anxieties and fears that left me feeling hopeless.

The truth is that I’m neither different nor alone. There are thousands of people just like me all over the globe. They are the thinkers and dreamers; a community of exceptional individuals who challenge conventional rational and use their passions as a means to overcome a world that seemingly works incongruously to them. They are men and women, rich and poor, sinners and saints, Christian, Muslim, Atheists, and others with a desire to make this world a better place; one small deed at a time. It’s this desire and passion that makes them world eaters in their own right.

Which brings me back to you. We’re still face-to-face. You’re still watching my eyes. But as I talk that characteristic hollowness of expression flickers and a universe of possibilities explodes across my retinas. The flashfloods of potential are so fast that you second-guess that you even saw them. But as you stare at me and your mind processes the words I speak you realize that we’re one in the same. You’re staring into a reflection of your own soul. You’ve got passions, you’ve got dreams and you believe in life. You wouldn’t have made it this far if you didn’t.

You are an eater of worlds, just as I am. You’re brave, you’re bold, and you’re amazing. But most importantly you have the power to change your world. You just have to believe in yourself.

Turning Tricks

It’s amazing how often the best of us undermine ourselves and sell our dreams short. We live in an age of unprecedented creative expression; the Internet and social media (while seriously flawed) has afforded ingenious minds the opportunity to connect with audiences far beyond their physical reach. While my blog is relatively small compared to some, I still have followers in counties like India, Libya, Egypt and a myriad of other places I had never imagined my words would reach. Yet for all this creative expression and acceptance of art, so many of us are so full of self-doubt that we unwillingly commit self-sabotage every time we post something.

Counterintuitive isn’t it? How can we be expressing ourselves and amassing an audience in far reaching locations, yet lynch our efforts all at once?

The answer: by degrading ourselves and our works through by using bullshit words like aspiring or would-be.

Every single day I receive countless emails from bloggers all over the globe who are reaching out hoping to connect with a like-minded soul. I try to respond to as many of them as I can, but the truth is that sometimes I’m stretched so thin that emails pile up and it takes me weeks to get back to that beautiful soul who took the time to contact me. My time management has always been fairly shit, but I try my best. I love hearing from people; even the ones that choose to rat me out or create malicious posts about me on public forums. But after three years of reading and responding to countless emails there’s a definitive trend that I’ve noticed in the contact I have with others.

It goes like this:

Dear Chris,

            I am an aspiring writer/musician/artist/entrepreneur/whatever…

Or like this:

Dear Chris,

            I am a would-be writer/musician/artist/entrepreneur/whatever…

…Fuck that. You’re not an aspiring anything. If you have a blog, or a band, or a half completed manuscript or business plan then you’ve made it and you’re selling yourself short by placing a bullshit adjective in front of whom you really are. You’re a goddamn writer, or musician, or artist so quit allowing your self-doubt to sabotage the brilliance within you. Stand up and show the world who you are and what you are creating because chances are it’s magnificent. And even if it’s not, you should stand proud knowing that you have breathed life into a labour of love.

There’s a real disparity between the truly talented and the snake oil peddlers who would love to convince you that they are. Trust me, it’s a lesson that I’ve learned the hard way. Take a look at the URL at the top of this page and you’ll note the word would-be in it. Even I was an aspiring writer at one point.

While these snake oil peddlers occupy space and become recognized not for their talent but their smooth tongue, the best of us tend to hold back; we toil over our crafts and work towards our dreams in near silence. We want to be heard, but we want to save face and distance ourselves from the possibility that our works won’t be well received. That adjective aspiring allows us a safety net if we fall short when reaching for our dreams. We can give up and say ‘I was an aspiring artist once. Sadly it didn’t work out.’

And so often it doesn’t. Not because we’re undeserving, and not because we aren’t talented enough to succeed. But because you allow yourself to be comfortable with the idea of failure by saying that you never quite got there in the first place.

Alright. Let’s pause and take a moment, because I’m sure that I’ve upset a few people. Let’s just cool off. You can swear at your screen if you want to. Call me names; tell me I’m being unfair. But I’d be willing to wager a bet that if you look within yourself you would struggle to tell me that I’m wrong.

So why do it? Why put yourself through that degradation that breaks your hopes and dreams just as they’re coming to fruition? Why limit yourself to just being someone who aspires to be more? Why not stand up, pull back those slouched shoulders and say ‘I’m not aspiring towards shit. I’ve already made it?’ Why not embrace that you are a writer/musician/artist or whatever else? Why keep turning tricks and selling yourself short?

You’re talented. You’re brilliant. And you’re beautiful. But you’re your own worst enemy. You can be whoever the hell you want to be. You’ve just got to stand up and show the world who that is. I love hearing from my readers. I really do. I love hearing of their successes, their lessons learned through failure, and their hopes and dreams for the future. But the thing I love the most is when someone sends me an email that starts by saying:

Dear Chris,

            I am a writer/musician/artist/entrepreneur/whatever…

Because I know right from that very first line that the man or woman contacting me isn’t afraid to open their heart to the world and let their creativity flow. They’re bold enough to be themselves and stand proudly beside their accomplishments.

It’s time to let go of your way out and ditch that shitty little adjective. Quit turning tricks and selling yourself short. Stand up and stake your claim. You deserve it.

Conventional Hell

I’ve always struggled with the idea of conventional education. Alongside editing my creative works, the education system has become the bane of my existence. I’ve forever had a love/hate relationship with classrooms. I love learning. I love to be challenged and increase my own intellectual prowess; I just don’t believe that the best way for me to do so is through university. The thought of writing pieces that are tailored to fit a marking sheet sends a shiver rolling down my spine. It seems incongruous to enroll in a course in creative writing only to have to stem the tides of my own creativity and start chasing grades instead. I’m stubborn as hell; you only have to read through a few of my posts to see that. And someone who wants to paint the world in glorious colour has no place in an educational system that promotes black and white.

I’m not knocking education in general. It’s really important that we make that distinction right here. University has its place in society. If I wanted to be a doctor, or a lawyer, exercise physiologist, or countless other professions then my progression through the tertiary education system would be an integral rite of passage. But when I am establishing a career out of my own creativity the process seems somewhat redundant; particularly for someone as headstrong as I am. There’s no one who understands the inner workings of my own mind like I do. And I resent someone grading something as personal as my creativity against the man or woman sitting next to me.

This is probably why I’ve racked up thousands of dollars worth of university debts across a number of partially completed degrees. I enrol, start off strong, and then eventually lose interest when assessments and classes pull me away from what I would rather be doing: writing. I’ve commenced and quit five separate university degrees, and right now I’m contemplating making it number six.

It hurts me to admit that I’m at this point again. I like to think that I am a resilient and adaptable man. I like to think that I am intelligent, and that I have the will and determination to see a task through to completion. When it comes to writing I push myself harder than anyone else ever could. I want to grow. I want to get better. And I want to finish a university degree for no other reason than to say that I didn’t give in. Because let’s be honest, a degree in writing doesn’t really equate to too much does it? I don’t want to be a journalist. I don’t want to be a copywriter. I just want to create literature. The most I’ll ever gain from my studies is an understanding of literature’s rules imparted onto the modern generation by all those who came before us. I’ll learn how the great minds of the past approached their craft. But if my successes so far have taught me anything it’s that rules are made to be broken.

I mean, how can someone manage to get a book put into print yet find it so difficult to adhere to something as simple as a study guide or assessment criteria? When I blog or write for myself I pour my heart and soul into what I do. I embrace vulnerability and allow my heart to bleed onto the page. Yet when I write at an academic level I have to be structured, restrained and ultimately boring. I remove the wondrous colours of a world that I’ve constructed in my head and leave behind the black and white outlines of a story that could have been great.

It sounds arrogant doesn’t it? I believe that I’m better than university right?

…Wrong. I just don’t gel with the classroom or the structure required to excel within it. When I was a kid my parents were so concerned with my lack of interest in writing and literature that they enrolled me in special education, those extra curricular activities for kids who are falling behind. But my problem wasn’t that I found literature boring: I just thought the way it was imparted upon my peers and I was pretty shit. Writing and art is about expressing oneself and breaking a piece down to the ridiculous where you know the text better than the author destroys the wonder within the words. I’ve carried this believe through to adulthood, creating university pieces that assessors have labeled vulgar, disgusting, and disturbing.

So here I sit, alone at my computer debating whether or not the graft of university studies is really worth the effort. If I was trying to do anything other than write creatively I would say most definitely. But when I’ve come so far already on my own should I bother writing to appease a lecturer? Or just keep building upon the momentum that I’ve gained and be the world eater who found publication all on his own? University is my Everest. It’s that goddamn elusive task that almost breaks me every time I try and climb it. Now I’ve got to decide if I truly need to mount this particular summit, or if simply creating a shoddy participation ribbon to mount on a mantle alongside my real achievements will suffice.

Punk Rock & Fashion

‘Dead where we stand; yet you concern yourself with such things as your status and what’s in fashion.’
– Keith Buckley

Ever noticed how we tend to focus on the unimportant? We spend more time fretting over how we’re dressed when we should care about telling our family we love them. We worry about working tirelessly at a job we hate rather than searching for something that makes us happy. And we focus so often on the future or the mistakes of the past that we forget to live in the present. We care so much about our online presence and how many followers we have yet we couldn’t give a shit about the man or woman standing beside us who is desperate to feel loved.

We are so concerned with being in fashion that we forget to be human. Then, when we become that man or woman who needs to feel an authentic human connection, we fail to comprehend how we can have thousands of followers, yet struggle to find a true friend. It’s as though all of these wonderful applications we’ve created to bring us closer together have in fact pushed us further apart then ever before. Your friends look so close when they are displayed on an illuminated screen in the palm of your hands. But when you dare to look up you realize that they’re all so far away.

We care so much about our online presence that we are never really present. Relationships falter; dreams die, and lives are lived unfulfilled because we’ve grown so accustomed to presenting an illusion of happiness and success that we’ve forgotten how to truly be so. We’ve become brands. All of us. Whether you like it or not you are a product that is marketed every single day through the hashtags you use, tweets you post, or pictures you upload. We pin things to a board, or use a repost application to show that we give a shit about a cause. We’re walking human highlight reels, yet so many of us are lost, tired and alone.

As a writer in this modern era of technology and online profiles it’s more important than ever to market yourself. Every day I’m asked what my Twitter handle is, how many followers I have on Pinterest, or Facebook, or Instagram, or a half dozen apps I’ve never even heard of. I’m told that I should be constantly marketing myself, or networking with different groups. I should be uploading a never-ending stream of posts so that my friends and followers never lose interest in what I am producing. In fact, many writers and social media gurus believe that I should be climbing through your screen and force-feeding you post after post until you’re choking on the words of a world eater.

But I disagree. To answer the questions above: I don’t have twitter. I have zero Pinterest followers, a Facebook page that is largely abandoned, and an Instagram account with a limited number of followers. Why? Because rather than force-feed people an endless stream of moderately legible (and largely unintelligent) bullshit, I’d rather craft posts with meaning and become successful in my own right. Society has become so lost in its own desperate attempt to be in fashion that it can’t even see that good artists, musicians, writers and humans are dying in its arms while it worries how it will be judged in the eyes of others. Neglect kills creativity. But it can be reborn again through the admiration of a single man, woman, or child.

A few followers have recently told me that I am rebellious and the idea has really stuck. My siblings and I have always had a saying when we admire a musician, writer or artist. We smirk at one another and call them punk rock. We admire that the art they create is raw. Great artists aren’t concerned with being in style or fashionable. They’re too busy creating trends all of their own. No best selling author has ever accomplished such a feat by imitation. Innovation creates success, wins hearts and achieves dreams. So if refusing to be just another writer, questioning everything and trying over and over to free my mind and revolutionize myself and my work is rebellious, then so be it. If that makes my work a little bit raw and a little bit punk rock than I couldn’t be happier.

If you gave me a choice right now between standing before a thousand people who knew my name and were loosely interested in my work, or ten people who believed in me enough to cause an uprising I would take the latter in a heartbeat. In a world where everyone seems concerned with numbers of followers and carving out an illusion of success and happiness, the truly successful learn to differentiate. As a writer and as a man it’s more important than ever to focus not on amassing multitudes of people who pass by your book or website on a daily basis, but in creating amazing content to capture the hearts and minds of those who take the time to read, listen, or watch what you have produced.

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.

Suicide Season

‘Ignoring your passion is slow suicide. Never ignore what your heart pumps for.’

  • Kevin Claiborne

Let’s play a game of Russian Roulette.

You and I are seated at a table in a smoke filled room; there’s an old six shooter positioned perfectly between us with a single round floating in one of its chambers. The heavy aromas of mildew and fear cling to your skin causing you to perspire. We’re alone. There’s no one here to save us; the only entrance to the cell is destined to remain locked until only one of us remains. You’re scared. So am I. Our lives have been reduced to this moment where we’ll play a game of chance to see who survives. Nothing else matters right now. It’s just you and I.

There’s a coin beside the gun. We’ll flip to see who shoots first. I pick it up and use my thumb to send it spinning through the air. You call heads. It lands tails side up. I shoot first. I pick up the gun, spin the barrel and stare you dead in the eye. It’s nothing personal. We just lucked out you and I. Our only chance of survival is to have the six shooter’s hammer strike home while the weapon sits in the palm of our hand.

My arm lengthens as I draw down on you. Time slows. Your blood thickens in your veins, your heart rate triples in a desperate attempt to push it through your body. Your hands are clammy. You’re freezing despite the humidity in the room. What do you think about in this moment of absolute fear? What decisions do you live to regret? How many passions were left wanting before you found yourself locked in a room with an irrational writer and a gun?

The answer should be none. We should be living every day to the fullest. Regret should be just a word in the dictionary. But it never is. We humans are creatures of hindsight; we are forever bound to look back at moments and note missed opportunities and failures.

Did you fail to chase your dreams? Or tell your lover how much they mean to you? Were you disappointed that you didn’t invest in those risky shares that ultimately paid huge dividends? No matter what you thought of in your moment of fear you did have regrets. At some point you settled for something other than your true passions and now when your life flashed before your eyes you wished you’d never been so foolish.

You ignored your passions and committed slow suicide. The final scene of your self-sabotage was merely a crazed writer with a gun. Every single sacrifice you had made prior to you and I being locked in a room was what lead you there.

It’s a loaded statement I know. To say that you are committing this form of slow suicide is sure to anger some; and it should. When Kevin Claiborne coined the expression he wasn’t trying to make his audience feel good. He was trying to piss them off. He wanted readers to sit back from their desk, or rise from their armchair and say, “Screw this guy. I’ll show him who’s ignoring their passions.” He wanted anger and emotion. He wanted you to rise and stop settling for less than you deserve. So do I.

It’s why I locked us in that damn room. It’s why I put a busted old six-shooter on the table and told you there was a single round in the chamber. It’s why I ground back the hammer so that the round would never fire. I don’t want to kill your dreams. I want to piss you off to rouse you from your slumber so that you actually start chasing them.

The only thing standing between you and your dreams is the excuses and sacrifices you keep making. You’re comfortable and I get that. I am too. But this state of comfort is suicide season for anyone who dreams of becoming something more. My comfort comes in working a cushy job where I earn a decent wage for doing very little. I could sit here for the rest of my life and allow the flames of my passion to die. I could let the momentum with my writing fade until all that’s left is stone cold ashes of what could have been. Or I can douse the flames of creativity in petrol and watch it burn brighter than ever.

It’s easy to ignore a passion and to deny your heart the opportunity to accomplish what it pumps for. But to do so is a travesty; it is to commit emotional and creative suicide. Think back to those moments of fear when you were staring down the barrel of that shitty old six-shooter. Think of the regrets that haunted you. Remember that spike in your pulse as you fretted over an end that you knew was ultimately inevitable. Do you want to look back on your life and shudder at the comfort you achieved by allowing passions to die? Or do you want to be someone who set the world ablaze and turned a passion and a dream into a reality.

Commit emotional suicide, or step outside your comfort zone and follow your dreams. The choice is yours. You wouldn’t play Russian Roulette with an unstable writer and a loaded gun unless you had no other choice. So why do we actively chose to do so with our dreams?

Disengagement & Me

‘You are the cause of this sickness. And the cure for this disease.’

  • Jamie Hope.

I, like many creative minds suffer from anxiety. I have a yearning desire that wants to continuously grow and develop in an effort to push the limits of my own creativity.  It’s something that I’ve always lived with, and something that I imagine will be present for the rest of my life. I constantly feel as though I am falling short; that I need to work harder, become better, and ultimately achieve. When I kick the bucket I want the world to pause, just for a fraction of a second so that people can acknowledge what I have achieved before it spins on and I am ultimately forgotten.

For the most part this anxiety can be channeled into something positive. When I’m stressed I create, and when I create I come closer to my dream of fashioning a career as an author. But there are also a lot of negatives that come with suffering from anxiety. My anxiety makes me stubborn and unbelievably selfish at times. As I continue to grow and understand myself I’m starting to realize that this anxiety causes me to suffer from emotional disengagement.

It’s a worrying affliction. When I’m faced with emotional stresses my natural reaction is to become a robot devoid of any emotion and simply pretend as though I don’t care. The problem with this is the only time one ever faces emotional stresses or turmoil is when they are engaged in conflict with a loved one. When I act like I don’t care I inevitably end up hurting those I care about the most. I’ve had conversations with parents, friends, and lovers where my emotional disengagement kicks in and they are left feeling scorned as they fail to understand how someone who prides himself on his ability to communicate can become so cold.

When my parents split up I shut down. Just like most in my situation would. But by doing so my mother thought that I blamed her for the break up; my father did the same. The reality of the situation was that neither was true. I didn’t blame either of them for what happened, and I still don’t. I’ve always believed that love is supposed to be easy, and for Mum and Dad it wasn’t. They worked incredibly hard to keep it together for us kids, but ultimately their relationship failed. Neither was to blame, but my shutting down and refusing to talk about what happened scarred the relationships that I have with my parents. I love them both and I always will. But the disengagement I showed both of them when they needed the support of their children will always be a blot on the scorecard of our relationships.

Even now in my relationships I struggle with disengagement. Partners past and present have told me that I often seem disinterested or noncommittal in my levels of participation. It’s not that I don’t care; it’s just that I have this never-ending angst that eats away at me. When I’m with my partner I’m apprehensive about the fact that I’m not writing; when I’m writing or studying I’m acutely aware that I’m neglecting her. It’s this weird damned if I do, damned if I don’t feeling that eats away at me. The only thing that ever seems to ease the pressures I place upon myself is when I’m being creative.

When I’m writing I can be free. I can be angry, peaceful, ugly, beautiful, perfect and flawed. I can be me: anxious yet arrogant. Bold yet cautious. A walking contradiction. And for a few hours at a time I can forget that I suffer from emotional disengagement and become a goddamn literary wolf or a fully functioning human being again. I can create pieces about issues that matter to me, or tales of sexual and emotional lust to show that I care. When I write I’m whole and the anxiety vanishes. When I stop that the cracks in my façade begin to surface and the fractured soul underneath becomes visible once again. Literature is quite literally the cause of my sickness, just as it is the cure for the disease.

The purpose behind this post is simple: it’s a thank you. A thank you to my family, partner and loved ones for understanding that I’m not an arsehole; I’m just not quite normal. A thank you my readers for sticking with me through moments of arrogance and emotional turmoil. Things got a little hairy for a while there but we’re growing together and I love the journey that we’ve taken. And to literature: you’ve broken me more times than I could ever begin to describe. I’ve cried in wardrobes, burned manuscripts, and set out to set the world ablaze. But I’ve also loved, learned, and undergone a metamorphosis from a bitter mind into a damn good writer.

I’ve got a lot to be thankful for in this life, and sometimes I forget to take the time to show those close to me just how much I care. If you’re reading this than you mean more to me than you could ever imagine.