“The Color of Migraines”
I bought a book on synesthesia. I have decided this is the core of the next book, the one I am writing for myself. There will be no fantasy, no Sci Fi, no bullshit, and no punches pulled. Just the usual stuff – suspense, murder, romance, violence, sex. It is time I let out what’s inside of me. And what is inside is not always gentle, not tame, not for the faint of heart or soft of spirit. And if no one ever reads it, the next woman I love will, and that has always been enough for me.
Hell, I have written three books that only 1 person has read. That must be some kind of record.
At the very least, I don’t have to worry about “friends” starting the book, not finishing, and not having the courtesy of giving me feedback. I suppose instituting a wall of fuckyoutitude in advance is defensiveness, but who gives a shit. I’m still the guy they all call … all of them … when they are stressed, in trouble, sad, in need of help. And when it’s my turn to be in distress, I’m still the only one I can call. I’ve realized that I am my best friend, and the only person I need to please with my writing is me.
Sure as hell don’t need the money. What the fuck would I do with a $5,000 royalty check? Please.
I only wish I started writing back when people wrote books that weren’t shit. I wish I had editors who didn’t want to use my books to write the “great novel” they have no fucking talent to write. I wish I could have been there in the early days, when other writers pushed each other to greatness, not on how to market shitty books that no one should sell. Art is fucking hard, and it’s even harder when you have to swim upstream by yourself. And trust me, no matter who you are, or how talented, your swim will be damn upstream.
I could write the next 50 Shades of Grey in a month. Hell, I could kick its ass. Why would anyone ever want to write that? Moreover, why do people want to read it?
It’s hard, when people ask me about writing, and I want to tell them that I’ve quit. That I no longer want to be a novelist, despite knowing that I can. They won’t believe me when I tell them it is because people WANT predictable bullshit. Editors WANT all the surprises revealed up front. They want all the stories told in the same way, and all the romances to be MMF or FMF or some other variation of a theme.
How the fuck would they react to my love story about two women? Who cares? All they’d want to know is if the sex is hot.
No, my friends, such as they are, don’t understand I don’t want to be a writer because of them. They don’t give a shit, and the people who do give a shit, want to read books I was too smart to write in the 4th grade.
No, they would just think it’s because my 1st two books don’t sell. I don’t care if they sell. I wrote them in 2 months. I’ve taken longer than that to do my taxes.
Why write, if what I want to do is learn to produce great literature … to write a book in a format and structure that isn’t the 1/4 in surprise, middle half failures, 1/4 out big crisis and climax. If change is bad, what in the fucking hell is the point of being an artist?
None of us has courage, and the public doesn’t want it. Fuck it. I can write the book for me, and my best bud. She’ll think it’s cool to close her eyes, and see the sounds you can smell, the voice that tastes like chocolate, and the smells with their own colors.
And that will be enough for me.
Raw, Naked Art 
Reading this made me want to stand up and holler with a big old “woot!” Or is that “holla?” I’ve written 10 books, all at least 500 pages, that only I have ever read. That will probably always be the case but that’s okay. I wrote them for my own enjoyment and as an escape when real life became too hard to deal with. Write to write, I say and who indeed gives a shit what others think? Not I. I will argue the point about “None of us has courage…” I have it in spades 😉 A voice that tastes like chocolate sounds devilishly delectable.
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My voice used to taste like chocolate. Now it tastes like gravel, topped with cream sauce.
Why won’t you let anyone read your books? Which one do I get to read first?
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Oh my gracious! I never received notification that you replied to my comment! I blame my persnickety phone again hmph. I’ve been so busy reading “Discovery” I haven’t had the time to get back here and reread your posts as I so enjoy doing 🙂 Interesting that reading your writing is keeping me from reading your writing. Okay, maybe it’s only interesting to me 😉
I’ve heard your voice and while I don’t know what it actually tastes like to you, to me it tastes like an indescribably deep liquid that warms on the way down and quickens my pulse. Like what alcohol does to me only on a unique level of perception. This is when most people who have met me say “normal people don’t think like that.”
It’s not that I won’t let anyone read my books, it’s that I’ve found no one except my best friend and my former English teacher who ever made the time. Everyone else I tried to share with focused only on the grammar and editing aspects without reading the story and I’ve heard “it’s not the kind of stuff I read” more times than I can count. I was actually just last night considering emailing you the first chapter of one of my books. It came to mind a couple nights ago while reading how Charlie and Robin created such different landscapes in the dream world after Robin texted the word “dragons” before they went to sleep.
Hopefully I can find that first chapter on my external HD tonight and send it your way. You don’t have to read it and if you do read it, you don’t have to like it. All that matters to me really is that I’m sharing my writing.
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A trick: I created the different viewpoints by asking a writer friend to describe her dreamworld. Then I made hers robin’s vision. You don’t have to be lone wolf just because you’re a writer .
Sent from my Verizon Wireless 4G LTE DROID
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I’m just noticing the date of this post, and when I posted my poem to the universe. Perception of time is a funny old thing, and you have to be careful what you wish for, because most dreams from my experience tend to come true. Even if they look a little different than you had at first imagined. If you wish for exactly what you need, then you can’t go wrong.
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Some people call those wishes prayers. That’s how people begin to develop … horrors … faith. 😉
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If faith means trust, then I have that in abundance when it comes to what I believe 😉
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Open, darling, open. 🙂
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I am completely open. That to me has nothing to do with faith.
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If you believe that, then you misunderstand faith. 🙂 Faith is openness with expectation. Openness without expectation is agnosticism, neutrality. However, if one cannot embrace expectation of positive results, in the absence of proof, one cannot be truly open.
Here, I’m not talking about being open to anything in specific, just being open in the way a child is open. They look up in the stranger’s face, and smile, because they expect to be pleased. We adults, being “wiser” are also open, but instead of smiling, we think, “Prove it to me, and I’ll believe I will be pleased.”
That, however, misses the point. Expect that the universe works in the way we hope, and it does. The reverse is equally true.
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Just words. They will never be adequate enough to explain anything. We can run rings around each other as a human race with all the best will in the world to try and express what we feel without ever even getting close.
Our words mean different things to each of us, even if they seem to look and smell the same, and there is no point trying to dissect a hair, or split a cat in order to iron out a crease in understanding that is as illusive as language itself. My faith is not open to debate, and I mean that in the kindest of ways, because it’s not really the issue of any form of communication. It’s all about what makes us different and brings us together. If I decide that my time is up tomorrow then I will go with full expectation that all will continue to be well. That I think is what some might call faith, I call that knowledge. 🙂
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If you truly believe that then there’s nothing I can say. I find that way of thinking to be horribly sad. It is hurt masquerading as logic.
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You misunderstand me. It isn’t horribly sad at all, intent behind words is what is important. The words themselves are just noises which is why other languages are possible. The intent behind any language is mutually translatable, the words are not if you do not specifically understand them. Do you get my point?
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I get your point. However, I for one take great care to ensure there is no difference between what I say and what I mean. If one dismisses my words they are also dismissing the intent behind the words. And for most people, the separation, while it exists, is beyond their grasp.
As to your other point, I don’t know anyone who doesn’t consider their faith to be knowledge. I think we are operating at a linguistic level that is interesting to you linguists, but which is a distinction the rest of us do not make.
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“You linguists”? Sounds presumptuous, and very much like the kind of pigeonholing that goes against my grain.
I read intent way clearer than I hear words. I couldn’t give a hoot what the apparent ‘general’ populace believes. What you think, I do care about oddly enough. But you are not the general populace and cannot speak for them, you can only voice your own opinions and hope that I receive them well, as intended right?
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I will reiterate. I do not make the distinctions you are making. I do not pigeonhole words to a single, precise definition. I am a poet first. I use the term linguists in its purest sense:a person who studies or is interested in linguistics (I am not). A person skilled in several languages / a polyglot (I am not). Those of us who do not need to care about the nuances of language generally do not.
I am sad again.
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I’m not sure what poem “to the universe” you’re referring to. I’d like to read it (or again).
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The one on my secret blog, the one that almost moved you to macho tears 😉
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Harrumph, harrumph. Why, I never …
*grunting ensues
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did you find it then? I would send you a link but I’m in the middle of writing 🙂
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Don’t worry about it. I’ll find it.
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