Tag: writer

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.

Trust in Fear

A very wise man once told me that if you are not afraid you’re not pushing yourself hard enough. Interesting thought right? If there’s no trepidation at the thought of failure, or risk of embarrassment or shame, then you’re playing it too safe. He compared my goal of becoming a successful author to climbing Everest. When you are standing with both feet on the ground and staring up at the treacherous mountain there is an absence of fear. You’re safe. You can state your intention to climb, but until you actually start to traverse the mountain’s surface you’ll never know the thrill of the ascent.

Many of us start writing like that. We look at the hardcopies created by authors we love and while we know there have been ounces of blood given, sweat produced, and tears wept to create them, we fail to understand the true magnitude of becoming published. We naturally just assume that we’ll write a manuscript and it will immediately become a bestseller. But nobody can ever truly understand the dedication and effort required just to write a novel unless they’ve done it themselves. To then edit, rewrite, find representation and ultimately become published is as complex a task as one can ever take on. Becoming published is a writer’s psychological version of Everest, complete with avalanches, precarious cliff faces and dodgy ledges.

The man who told me that I was playing safe is a published author. In fact, he’s a little better than that. He is one of the most recognizable names in modern literature and I was fortunate enough to spend some time with him. He told me that I was too comfortable as a writer and that if I ever wanted to climb Everest and become a successful author, I’d first need to learn how to climb. Then, when I was ready, I’d need to learn how to climb again. Only this time without a safety net.

Why? Because there is no triumph without the threat of failure, and only those who are prepared to push themselves further than their own limits will ever be privy to the glory of true success. Seventy one percent of people who attempt to summit Everest fail; only twenty nine percent ever achieve their dreams. The ones that do make it are all unique. They come from across the globe and battle against their own circumstances, as well as those of the mountain. But they all have one thing in common: they’ve learned how to trust in fear. When the shit hits the fan and they need to climb without a safety net, they use the fear that cripples most of us to spur them onwards towards success.

I’m not about to climb the real Everest. I’m in somewhat reasonable shape, but if you asked me to hike nearly nine thousand meters I’d fail. If I somehow managed to hike to base camp without having a heart attack I’d consider it a success. But nevertheless I can learn how to trust in fear. I can learn how to climb the mountains of my mind without a safety net. And I have. If I hadn’t then there’s a very real possibility that Midas would have never been put into print.

One of the biggest fears I had when I first started writing was embarrassment. I feared looking foolish; of being judged. I wanted to be successful. I wanted to be a star! But I wanted to know that I would be a success before I took a leap of faith and shared my work with the world. I didn’t want to accept that failure was a possibility. The problem is that it doesn’t always work like that. You have to make yourself vulnerable and expose your works so that people can then learn to love or loathe what you have created. I started writing in 2006, creating manuscript after manuscript and submitting them without the slightest hint of success to agents and publishers. I’d write in isolation, edit the work myself, and then submit to a company who would take one look at the works and send it back with a Dear John letter attached.

I was so desperate to be liked that I had this crazy idea that I could write in complete isolation then suddenly emerge with a publishing deal and become a phenomenal success. My safety net was my anonymity and until I was ready to be a celebrity I just had to keep a low profile. The agents and publishers I submitted trashy pieces to didn’t know me. I was just a mysterious writer who was expecting himself to revolutionize an industry. Instead, I was denying myself the opportunity to develop my talent through exposure to appreciation and criticism by an audience.

In 2012 I started this blog. I was down and out: a broken man with no positive outlook or hope of achieving my goals. But by taking a risk: by listening to the words of a superstar who had traversed this ground before me I took my first shaky steps without a safety net. I allowed myself to be loved and loathed by my peers, and I learned how to become a better writer through their words. I was loved by some, loathed by others – Even ending up as the target of a religious organization in the United States who said I was promoting the dangerous ideology of acceptance to my readers: an accomplishment I really wish I could put on my resume…

…But I digress…

…I learned to trust in fear through this site. I learned to be exposed and to be vulnerable, and the pay off is that I now have a book in print, a healthy blog, and a happiness that eluded me for many years. People always tell me that I am hard on myself. That I push myself to places that I shouldn’t go, or set goals that are almost certainly destined to fail. They say that I should be more realistic. But I respond by saying that they need to learn how to push themselves outside of their comfort zone. The moment you become complacent or content is the moment where you have lost the opportunity to reach just that little bit further.

I’ve learned to not only trust in fear; but to thrive off of it. Without fear I never would have made it this far. I’m determined to climb my Everest, so I keep pushing myself with every piece that I write. I keep praying for accolades and admonishment by my peers so that I can continue to grow. Because the more I do, the more I lose site of that damn safety net that threatens to hold me back. Fear is failure. Freedom comes from being prepared to fall.

The New Violence

Are you ready? I mean, are you really ready?  If we are going to do this I need you to commit; to put your faith in me and take a chance. I need you to hear me out, free your mind, and try something new. We’re about to cause an uprising. You and I. Together. We’re going to change the world.

We are the new kind of violence. And we are stronger than we ever believed possible; some of us just don’t know it yet. We are the young and the old. The restless and contented. We are arrogant and humble. We’re ordinary, yet astonishing. Strong, yet vulnerable. Bitter yet undeniably resilient. We are perfect though flawed. We are men, women and children of all religions, class structures and creeds. We’re here to grow and to decamp that which holds us back and limits our potential. All you have to do is trust me. Take a leap of faith and do something so simple you’ll wonder why you’ve never bothered to do it before now.

So, are you ready?

Good. Then lend me your hands. Clear your mind, and let’s get violent. You and I. Together.

I need you to stand up. Step back from your computer, put down your phone, or tablet or whatever gadget you’re using to read this. Put it away just for a moment. Then pull back your shoulders, breathe in and stand tall. Occupy space. That’s all I want you to do. Grow. Reach your hands towards the heavens, or place them on your hips. Do whatever the hell you want. Just expand and grow. Be confident. I’ll wait right here for you. Take all the time you need…

…You’re back? Awesome. Let’s continue.

People seem to equate violence with an act of physicality or destruction. But it can be so much more. Sadly for those of you who were waiting for an excuse to start setting the world ablaze and hurling trashcans through shop front windows it’s not here. I’ve been through my self-destructive stage a little while back. So we’re not concerned with physical violence anymore. That shit is old hand. We as a society are so desensitized to acts of aggression and physical harm that we fail to even register when we are witness to them. If I had of told you to start tearing shit apart you’d hardly have even noticed.

What we want is damage by distortion. We want to create the kind of unwanted alteration of our minds as we grow that will allow us to remove the leeches that feed on our bleeding hearts. We want to peel the bloodsuckers from our soul and discard of them so that we can become strong.

Heavy. Yet convoluted. I haven’t posted in nearly three weeks and now I’m spinning tales of violence, leeches and occupying space. There’s a slight possibility at this point that I’ve gone mad in my short lived sabbatical. But stick with me. This will all make sense in the end…

…I recently received an email from a reader and fellow blogger in which she said that she had taken the time to read through the history of this site. She went on to state that the evolution I had undergone from a lonely and bitter boy writing alone to a published author was inspiring. I should have found such comments flattering. But instead I found them disconcerting. Twelve months ago if you had of told me that someone would see me as an inspiration point I would have laughed. I was an angry, bitter prick on a road to nowhere fast. But I cleaned up my act and managed to carve out a niche market in which I’ve been able to slowly develop myself as a writer and man. I still wouldn’t say I’m someone who should be admired. Admonished seems more fitting. But nevertheless one reader has found solace in all of this.

But now that I’ve got my shit together and am starting to actually achieve the goals I’ve been striving towards for years I’m learning the value of being myself. The concept of occupying space is this: expand your mind. Become confident in yourself. Achieve your dreams.

It’s as simple as that. When you learn to become confident, to draw back your shoulders, expand your chest and tell yourself that you are deserving; that you are capable, you immediately put yourself into a position where you can achieve. In contrast if you withdraw into yourself and fill your mind with negative thoughts you achieve negative outcomes.

So instead of shrinking and accepting second best, you need to learn to get violent. We all do. Disarm the dissent that seeks to oppress you. Overcome the bullshit fear that is holding you back and learn to be strong. We are all powerful beyond measure. Each and every single one of us. All you have to do to harness that power is learn to believe in yourself and instill confidence instead of hate, self-loathing and doubt. When you do that then you can overcome the leeches that wish to feed upon you. You can become strong and remove the parasites from your heart and mind. You can become confident. You can become strong. And you can achieve your goals.

If you’re lucky. And I mean really, really lucky. When you have achieved your dreams you’ll receive an email from someone telling you that you inspire them. That by you simply expanding, growing in confidence and learning to occupy more space within your own mind and the industry you long to succeed in, you’ve encouraged them to do the same. You’ve changed your world. Just by taking a leap of faith and trying something new.

Become the new kind of violence. It doesn’t matter if you are the young, the old, the flawed, broken or free. You can be perfectly imperfect, yet undeniably strong simply by occupying space and allowing yourself the chance to grow. One leap of faith. All you have to do is stand up, breathe in and allow yourself to expand.

So, I’ll ask you one last time. Are you ready to try something new?

TCB

Believe it or not I fail a lot of university courses. It probably sounds rather peculiar to hear considering that my debut novel has just hit bookshelves, but my writing style isn’t necessarily what some tutors or lecturers would deem as palatable. For those who know me well it’s no secret that I struggle in my university studies. I’m currently six months into my seventh attempt at obtaining a degree, and it’s taken all of my intestinal fortitude not to throw in the towel again. It turns out that conventional education isn’t designed for a self-assured writer who refers to himself as a wolf and a world eater. I have a nasty habit of enrolling in a course only to quickly lose interest when the realisation that you just can’t teach creativity dawns upon me and I start cussing at anyone who will listen about just how frivolous university is.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself. The truth is that for a long time I just assumed that I was destined to be the John fucking Lennon of literature and that completing a degree was merely something I would do to kill time before achieving superstardom.

Ah, delusions of grandeur. They’re great aren’t they? Why take your education seriously when you can just coast through, fail, then expect to still become something better than your efforts deserve.

The very concept of my thought pattern sound ludicrous. Do nothing: achieve everything. And yet I’ve whittled away time in courses based upon grammatical construction, contemporary literature, and god knows what else waiting for the moment my name hits the best sellers lists. I’ve done little more than the bare minimum and then blamed everyone except myself when I haven’t achieved the grades I know that I am capable of. Then when I have inevitably failed I’ve done the stupidest thing possible and quit.

But quitting is a fool’s decision. What I need to do is learn how to take care of business. When things get tough, you don’t throw in the towel and walk away. You dig deeper, you fight harder, and you transcend beyond the bullshit roadblocks holding you back.

See, I think university for creative writing is bullshit. I genuinely don’t believe that spending time in a classroom studying or writing pieces that are tailored towards achieving a grade is the best use of any creative mind’s time. You can teach someone the basics of narrative, grammar, and the likes. But you can’t expect to create a passion or an urge to push the boundaries of one’s creative potential simply by clicking through a few lecture slides or by prescribing homework. University has its place within the education system. But teaching something as subjective as creativity is fundamentally flawed and virtually impossible. If I had aspirations of being a journalist or writing copy then maybe I would feel a little differently. But I’m a goddamn wolf tearing at the door of the literary industry. If someone stands in my way and tries to preach how conventional education can improve my creative process, they’re going to be savaged.

Nevertheless it’s this aversion to conventional education I battle with every single time I attempt to study that makes the completion of a degree so important to me. I don’t need help trying to cultivate creativity.  I’m fortunate in the fact that I have an extremely overactive imagination and a tongue laced with acid. But the discipline required to apply myself to something other than my creative endeavours will become increasingly important as I continue to grow and develop as a writer.  I once met a world renowned author who told me that the bigger his name became, the less time he actually had to write as he was forced to indulge in a plethora of alternative ventures. Therefore university is imperative to me simply because it’s teaching to expand my mind and struggle through adversity rather than simply giving up.

Immerse yourself. Then swim.

I want to become synonymous with literature. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; writing is my dream and the life I’m fighting for. University is a hurdle that I am choosing to face because I believe that I need to learn how to be resilient and challenge myself at every given opportunity. I want to take care of business and become a name of notoriety, but I can’t do that unless I develop the inner strength to stand up to my weaknesses and learn how to overcome them. Rather than rely on my delusions of grandeur and simply whittle away time until success falls into my lap, I’m chasing it down and pinning it to the floor.

I’m a wolf taking care of business. The literary industry should prepare itself for a new kind of violence, because I’m learning just how great I can be when I simply refuse to quit.

Crime Without Punishment

You broke into my chest and stole my heart. You looked me in the eye, asked me to take your hands and then robbed me blind. Like a thief in the night you moved so silently; climbed through the boarded up windows of my soul and pillaged from within. You should have been punished! You should have been reprimanded and rebuked! But yours was a crime without punishment. You stole my heart, and all I could do was watch as held it in your trembling hands and told me to trust that you would keep it safe.

I told you that your body was a landscape. I was supposed to be the vicious world eater with an insatiable lust to destroy the map. But now I feel you inside me; feel my heart beating your name and know that I have been bested by the contours I fought valiantly to conquer. I scaled your breasts, left my teeth marks on your neck and impressions of my hands on your hips. But these marks were only skin deep; you broke beneath the surface and saw the nakedness of I. You forced your way into a place no other has ever reached and carved your name into the fleshy chamber of my humanity. You took a soul plagued by anger and stole from it. You took away the anger; plundered from the well of bitter thoughts. You should have been punished. You should have been admonished.

But how could I ever hurt someone so darling? How could I ever dream of stringing you up like a thief and tearing apart your innocence? Your crime was one committed through best intentions. A soul descended from the heavens, dragged through the mud and tarnished by a wolf. I could have been your fall from grace. But instead you lead me to the waters of my rebirth. You stripped me bare and asked me to bathe until I was washed clean. So I sank beneath the surface until I was engulfed by a world so calming, so wondrously silent and tranquil.

Alone with my thoughts I could think of nothing but you. I could feel you with me; imagine your fingers interlaced between mine. I was the devil. I was the world eater and wolf. But you tore apart all the misguided preconceptions I had of you and I. You showed me in the silence beneath the waters just how beautiful we could be.

I emerged born again; infatuated and no longer alone. I had never imagined I could be so contented; so smitten and besotted. I tried to fight it. I wrapped my fingers around your throat, left bite marks and bruises on your legs. But I couldn’t fight the remorse or shake the feelings of regret. The thief who stole my heart deserved more than I could ever give. You broke open the vault of my heart and found it barely beating within.

You took it in your hands, stared deep into the eyes of a wounded beast and nurtured it back to health. You committed a crime without punishment. You stole my heart to set it free. You should have been chided, strung up and ousted for your devious ways. But all I could do is stare into your eyes as you asked me to trust you and place my hands in yours. You stole my heart, now it’s yours to nurture and keep.

I am at your mercy. A wolf swallowing his own pride. I am vulnerable and exposed. You are the thief who committed the ultimate crime.

Bragging Rights

Every now and then I’ll branch out and attend a writer’s conference. My reasons for doing so usually stem from a bout of writers block or shear frustration at my own inability to move forward within the industry, so I throw my hands in the air and venture out to see what others are doing to carve out their own success. I become disenchanted with my own abilities and stupidly start to think that the only way to succeed is to emulate, instead of innovate.

Whenever I do show up to an event I have a blast. I meet a bunch of great people, listen to a range of interesting talks, and find a renewed love for what I do. But no matter how much I enjoy myself I never walk away from an event with that piece of elusive information that will see my writing and carer soar to new heights.  Why?

Because it doesn’t exist. The whole concept of emulating what has worked for someone else and expecting it to yield similar results is flawed. We are all unique and we all approach similar goals and aspirations with our own set of circumstances that impact upon the inevitable outcomes of those dreams. It’s great to listen to someone talk about their pillars of success or foolproof methods of being successful, and many of us are able to draw great inspiration from this. But the truth is that there is no one who can tell you how to be successful, because there is no one who has lived through the same circumstances or developed the same idiosyncrasies as you.

You can draw influence from the successes of others, but if you truly want to achieve you have to create your own path. You have to wake up every single day with a hunger to achieve and be willing to bust your arse to make it happen. We live in a society drowning underneath a never ending sea of instant success stories or celebrities that are born out of a minute amount of talent and damn good timing. But rather than recognise that many modern day successes are born out of unique opportunity and circumstance, we start to criticise ourselves for having to fight tooth and nail for what we want.

We misconstrue the concept of celebrity with success and convince ourselves that the only measure of our accomplishments is our notoriety. If I’m not famous I mustn’t be producing works that are good enough right? Wrong. Some of the most stirring pieces I’ve ever read, watched, listened to or viewed have come from artists virtually unknown amongst their peers. They are men and women who have carved out niches in their chosen fields and although they aren’t instantly recognisable or celebrated within their fields, they are consistently redefining what it means to create wonderful art.

Excellence comes not from the praise of others, but from a continuous honing of one’s talents. Words of affirmation and celebrity within one’s chosen field is nice, however real satisfaction and success comes from knowing that you have created something beautiful and lent a piece of your soul to a work that will live on forever.

Bragging rights don’t equate to shit if you’ve won the praise of your peers for producing second rate work that belies your true potential. We all have the ability to excel at whatever we decide to. But we have to want that excellence with every ounce of our strength.  We have to consistently redevelop and redefine our craft and who we are over and over again until we become who we are born to be. You want to write? Write. You want to make music? Learn to play an instrument. You want to be a ball player? You better lace up those kicks and hit the court.

The very best of us earn our keep and blaze a trail of success that is uniquely ours. We don’t rely on the pseudo-helpful never fail theories of others, and we certainly don’t wait for pure chance to pluck us out of obscurity and hand us our dreams on a silver platter. We reach, we fall, and when we are knocked down we get back up and tell life that it hits like a bitch. This persistence and determination; this unending love for our crafts and passions is what forces us to aspire, create and ultimately achieve.

Bragging rights are earned through grit and determination. Success is achieved through hard work. You can become a legend in your own right; it just takes a lot of hard work.

Five Years

Anyone who has been following this site for a little while will be aware that I’ve undergone a metamorphosis of character over the past twelve months. The aggressively creative arsehole that I used to be has grown up and become a man. I would still call myself aggressive in my creative tendencies; when I get into the zone and start writing I lose all touch with reality and slip back into the mindset of a world eater. But I’ve stopped pushing myself to become a prick and have started trying to be a better person instead. I’ve still got a bucket full of angst and a tongue laced with acid but I’m learning how to channel them into something positive rather than trying to destroy myself.

To be honest I never imagined that I would become someone who could be happy. I had spent so long fuelling the anger within my soul that to suddenly quell my demons and instead aim to inspire surprises me. While there’s been many reasons behind the shift in my mental state and subsequent successes through this page there’s a story that really inspired me to make a change. It made me pull my head out of my arse and realise that I am an extremely fortunate man who has the world in front of him.

It goes like this: There’s this woman I work with. Her name is Gina and she’s incredible. See, Gina is blind. But even though she can’t see she works as a switchboard operator taking inbound calls and redirecting them to the relevant departments within our organisation. Every single day she comes to work with a smile on her face and works harder than anyone else. Inspiring: yes. But that’s not what makes Gina so special. It was a story that Gina told during a training session that really moved me.

Five years ago Gina had a necklace that she loved. Then one day it went missing. She put it down on her bedhead, forgot where it was and it simply disappeared. She searched for it. But when you don’t have the ability to see the world you live in something as simple as locating a necklace you have misplaced becomes quite difficult. So after a while she resided to the fact that the necklace was simply gone and moved on. Then one day she was cleaning her room and managed to work her hand between the bedhead and the wall. Guess what she found? The necklace that she’d lost five years earlier.

As she sat in our training session and told the story of how she had been reunited with her necklace Gina broke into a smile that brightened the whole room. Here was a woman who spent every single day moving through a world that she couldn’t see and she was happier than I was. Why? Because she knew how to take solace and find beauty in every single day. She understood that every day is a gift and that to be anything but happy is to deny ourselves of something truly incredible. Something as small as finding a necklace bought a smile to Gina’s face.

And there I was sitting across from this woman baring fangs at a world that I thought was trying to stamp my face into the dirt. When the training session was over and Gina returned to her desk I couldn’t shake the story. I took it home with me, thought about it over and over and cussed myself out for ever thinking that I was hardly done by. In a moment of complete vulnerability this woman that I worked with broke apart every single preconception that I had about myself and made me want to be a better man.

It turns out that even though I have been through some shit I actually live a very fortunate life. I have two parents who love me; three healthy siblings and a partner who adores me despite my ability to disappear into myself or become an abrasive prick at the drop of a hat. I live in a country without war, and have a roof over my head. I have no reason to be angry; no reason to want to tear myself or anyone else apart.  I’ve never lost a necklace behind a bedhead and spent five years searching to find it, so surely I could find happiness within the life that I live.

Just like that I decided to change. I let go of my hate and set myself free.

I don’t want to be known as an angry child. I want to be known as a man with the capacity to be brilliant. I write because I love. And I love because I write. I haven’t achieved everything I set out to do when I started writing, but as long as I continue to evolve and embrace myself there’s no telling just how wonderful life can be.

Sometimes we need to look beyond ourselves to realise just how fortunate we truly are.