The starving writer

In short it's me and my work

Do it right

There is an old saying, “do it right or not at all”.

Joss Whedon please learn from this.

If you’re a writer and you see this post, stop what you’re doing.

mark-helsing:

WHENEVER YOU SEE THIS POST ON YOUR DASH, STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING AND WRITE ONE SENTENCE FOR YOUR CURRENT PROJECT.

Just one sentence. Stop blogging for one minute and write a single sentence. It could be dialogue, it could be a nice description of scenery, it could be a metaphor, I don’t care. The point is, do it. Then, when you finish, you can get back to blogging.

If this gets viral, you might just have your novel finished by next Tuesday.

This would seem to say that all writers don’t work on their projects. I do and I am taking a well earned break so no thanks.

(via is-it-too-personal)

The Writer Vs The illustrator

I get into fights now and again over the following question. Which is harder to do, being a writer or being an illustrator? I always pick writing but then again I am one though my reasons are well founded. I would however like to know what others think of this question. Feel free to tell me, just be nice about it.

The light bulb

The light bulb

What the bloody hell is wrong with me? Get a grip, Sarah. Why can’t I just be like every other female bodied human being and accept that this is what happens to female bodies? It just… feels so wrong. So damn wrong. I don’t want this. I’ve never wanted this.

She sat on the toilet and cried. Big, deep sobs that sounded like a wounded animal lying down to die. If she didn’t keep quiet, she would have to explain what was wrong. How am I supposed to explain this entirely stupid concept? Every singled woman goes through this every month and I’m having a bloody melt down over it. Why couldn’t I have just been born a man? That would have been so much better. So much nicer, easier.

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Bleeding Heart

Bleeding Heart

The morning sun lit her face as if it had risen for her and her alone. Her Valentine red velvet off the shoulder dress with satin ruffled sleeves and bows was the exception in a sea of bland. With each step, you could almost hear an entire orchestra play to her every step. Her long, jet black hair flowed over her shoulders and danced softly in the sweet morning breeze and the smell of freshly baked bread that it had picked up from the bakers further down the street. She stopped momentarily outside a flower stand to smell the roses that had been freshly cut that morning. The scent of the bouquet sent pleasant tingles down her spine, a most unconventional rush of delight.

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I hate you

You don’t like me and I know you don’t.

You don’t like the way I talk.

You don’t like how I defend myself against your sarcastic barbs.

You don’t like my work or the trains of thought I board to get them.

You don’t like my lack of participation or my participation.

You don’t like the way I walk as I listen to the sounds you don’t like.

You don’t like me, you don’t like me, YOU DON’T LIKE ME and you know what, look at all the fucks that I give because I hate you.

Blood and water

Stew made with love.

An embrace with more than body heat.

I am loved, I am cared for, I am seen and heard.

They took me in when I was out in the cold and gave me a bed to sleep in. They read my works and make me feel good about them and myself.

They took the time to break down the glass walls I imposed around myself and find out everything there is to know about me.

They are the friends I have long sort after.

They care, they love, they are my family.

The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.

Green is NOT a creative colour

Green is not a creative colour.

These words are not spoken but I hear them none the less.

I tell the story of a young girl in love with her best friend but I am told this won’t work.

She will never have her story played out in the heads of strangers or twirl in that emerald green dress of hers that she got from her grandmother in chapter three.

A dress specially made to match her Paris green eyes.

No one will know if she gets the love of her life or is left found longing forever.

She dies before she lived, total attendance at funeral, one.

Why not remove that metaphor and make it simple? Why not remove that line there?

Maybe I don’t want it simple and maybe it took me four hours to come up with that metaphor, which I have great pride in. Maybe that line is fine. Why not give it another read?

These words never leave my mouth. There is simply no point and so I lie to myself I pretend I am someone else if only to force myself. Force myself to self harm with words I do not believe in. Paper thin lie punctured every three words.

I betray my pen, I betray myself.

My favourite colour is green, but green is not a creative colour.

Wrong

You think I am wrong.

I think you need to flip coin.

The coin shows two truths.

I see heads but you see tails.

A matter of perspective.   

Kids of Birmingham

I was thinking today about Birmingham, the city in which I was born and spent the first ten or so years of my life. I recall being picked on, a lot. I don’t think I met a kid who was not a selfish little shit of a bully. So in short fuck you Birmingham fuck you and everything about you including having such a stupid name like Birmingham.

I lost my password

I have not been on for awhile for one reason.

I had no idea how to work my gmail account, that is all I have to say on that.

Now that I am back however I will be filling the internet with my stories once again and I have a few more to show since the last time I was on. Hope you all like them.

My day {At best}

Wake up late with a headache even if I had not been drinking {Really need to see a doctor about that} take about three hours to recover from having to be awake. Then I sit down to my laptop and three hours later start writing 98% of which will be crap by the time I fall down on my “bed.”

16th Century Literature

I was supposed to take a class called mutant and monsters mythology but it clashed with my Monday class. So today was my first day in 16th century literature @_@ I sat there for over four hours and I still have no clue as to what the hell I have to do for that class. All the writing classes I wanted to take this year have been taken away from me and its really bringing me down. Does anyone have any advice.  

Three weeks left

last night I watched the film looking for a friend for the end of the world. This film really got to me and kept me up till about five in the morning thinking, what would I do with such a short amount of time left. So I want to ask anyone who reads the stuff I put out there this question. “What would you do if you had only three weeks left?” 

Hope

“Go on, beg, it’s the only jolly I get in this line of work.” The man’s request was met only with a smile. “What is so amusing?” He said gun pointing straight down cross hairs fixed between the young woman’s eyes.

“I’m happy. For the first time in my life I have found something worth dying for and her name is Hope.”

“We will find her.”

“Not before she finds you.”

A single gunshot echoed out into the night sky drowned out by the sound of approaching authorities.

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