Wednesday, November 2, 2016
Good bye
I can't cope with this intrusion any longer. 2 months I have been hiding away, no-one knew where I was, not even my agent, but then that pizza boy recognised me. I knew it. I knew it. Now he's been paid off by the vultures of the media and now they are camped out in the bushes near my cottage. Waiting for me to leave. I feel like a prisoner again. I can no longer stay here, hiding. I am out of food and I am out of ideas. There is nothing left for me.
So what can I do. How poetic it would be to lie in a warm bath and open my veins, letting the water mix with my dark crimson blood. Alas, I don't have a bath.
Scrambling through the kitchen drawers. I take in my hand the pathetic butter knife. Leaning it's cold steel against my wrist I know it will do little but pull at my skin. I aim its dull rounded blade towards my gut. Would it even penetrate my skin?
I can hear the vultures outside calling me. Begging me to come out. They even have a bullhorn now. They are counting down, they want me to come out, they want me to face them, the flashing bulbs of their cameras, the incessant questions. I cannot face it any more.
Tuesday, November 1, 2016
Monday, October 31, 2016
Sunday, October 30, 2016
Saturday, October 29, 2016
Friday, October 28, 2016
Thursday, October 27, 2016
Writer's Block - Diary Entry #1
I've been hiding away at the cabin now for two months, no company except those I find on social media. They have names and faces, but it remains superficial. The writer's block is getting worse, besides the facebook statuses I have remained without a single word in a story.
I have been incessantly scrolling through the internet, trying to find a story, a sound bite, a news item, something that inspired me to write like it did last time. Facebook seems to be nothing but over-achieving mothers and drunk teenagers. I've flicked through dozens of television channel and searched through subscription platforms too. When was the last time a truly great film was made? Authors like James Patterson now stifle other writer's careers and use their writing to line his own pockets. Perhaps that is what I should do? Go and be a writer for hire. You tell me what to write and I'll write it.
I've opened dozens of tabs on my computer internet screen and I've surfed through the various news channels where I sometimes find a good storyline, but at this time of year there is nothing but political rigmarole and hyperbole. The return to social media has actually made me less social the more I read.
Closing down my link to the world via the various internet pages I had open, and leaving behind those friends who thought it important to tell people how much fun they were having. I wondered if reality would ever be as good again as those in cyberspace made it out to be. I look at my blank screen once again and return to that sense of loss and failure.
I tapped my fingers against the keys on my laptop once more, feeling ever so mildly the tiny raised font of the letters on the keys of my keyboard. I hope that it will piece together a word or two of its own accord, the first word of an epic story that will fill me and my readers with delight, that will keep the journalistic vultures off my back and my readers at bay for another year or two!
I scramble a few random letters across the screen...
weoinfnvuytrrpqnebiwrvqmegviuewvbiwevqe
.. just the jibberish that fills my brain.
that would start me off on the next great novel. I am finding the isolation is destroying me. I wonder if returning to my home, the place where I was treated as I should be, is perhaps what I need? Am I mad? Leaving was meant to cure my writer's block. The silent muse that had deserted me was more of a problem when I was part of the world - albeit my small little section of it.
I felt like a failure. I typed the small insulting words across the screen.
LOSER HOPELESS DUMB STUPID CRAZY INSANE BLOCKED!
I am a failure as a person. Someone who believes they were a writer yet could not write anything original or inspiring. Yep that was me. The uninspired writer. I continued to type the demeaning words repeatedly across the page of my laptop’s screen, hating myself and hating my lack of talent. I watch the vein on the tops of my hands, they dance as I continue to type the demeaning words. I turn over both wrists and look at the purplish hue of the veins that run down my forearms. Is that my only option. I may have escaped from those who hound me, but how do I escape my own self-loathing? I brush my warm hand against my cold forearm. The thoughts feel almost... comforting.
Closing down my link to the world via the various internet pages I had open, and leaving behind those friends who thought it important to tell people how much fun they were having. I wondered if reality would ever be as good again as those in cyberspace made it out to be. I look at my blank screen once again and return to that sense of loss and failure.
I tapped my fingers against the keys on my laptop once more, feeling ever so mildly the tiny raised font of the letters on the keys of my keyboard. I hope that it will piece together a word or two of its own accord, the first word of an epic story that will fill me and my readers with delight, that will keep the journalistic vultures off my back and my readers at bay for another year or two!
I scramble a few random letters across the screen...
weoinfnvuytrrpqnebiwrvqmegviuewvbiwevqe
.. just the jibberish that fills my brain.
that would start me off on the next great novel. I am finding the isolation is destroying me. I wonder if returning to my home, the place where I was treated as I should be, is perhaps what I need? Am I mad? Leaving was meant to cure my writer's block. The silent muse that had deserted me was more of a problem when I was part of the world - albeit my small little section of it.
I felt like a failure. I typed the small insulting words across the screen.
LOSER HOPELESS DUMB STUPID CRAZY INSANE BLOCKED!
I am a failure as a person. Someone who believes they were a writer yet could not write anything original or inspiring. Yep that was me. The uninspired writer. I continued to type the demeaning words repeatedly across the page of my laptop’s screen, hating myself and hating my lack of talent. I watch the vein on the tops of my hands, they dance as I continue to type the demeaning words. I turn over both wrists and look at the purplish hue of the veins that run down my forearms. Is that my only option. I may have escaped from those who hound me, but how do I escape my own self-loathing? I brush my warm hand against my cold forearm. The thoughts feel almost... comforting.
*I need to acknowledge that the storyline is based on an idea suggested in the short story: Howard, A. 2013 Writer's Block. Though that premise has been significantly changed, altered and adapted to create new ideas, characters and outcomes, the original idea requires acknowledgement.
Wednesday, October 26, 2016
Monday, October 17, 2016
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Saturday, October 15, 2016
Friday, October 14, 2016
Thursday, October 13, 2016
Thursday, October 6, 2016
Wednesday, October 5, 2016
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Wednesday, September 28, 2016
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Monday, September 26, 2016
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