1.178 – The (con)-Artist

“We’ll be reduced to bland subject matter, just to avoid embarrassment.” – The Writing Class

The fiction writer is a fictional artist

A recorder of the con; living in the con, breathing in the con, working the con and retelling it to unsuspecting ears.

From the crack of dawn until the setting of the sun, this life is a mound of clay – molded to the specifications of the story teller…the story maker.

Because the greatest truths and the greatest lies have not come from soldiers and martyrs, not the teachers or students but the artists. The artists of the con.

The mouth you feed. Filled with shit

The bible you read. The con made it.

The sky you see. Foundation laid.

The God within it. The story we made.

History is what we want you to know. The future is where we want you to go. The day is but the time to rise. The night is your impending demise. Because we’ve made the weather and decided whether you will know tomorrow…if the chapter is completed.

Defeated, sometimes we end on an ellipses that is meant to travel like sands of time……………..until the decline of interest in which we pick it up with a beat, a strike of the keys, demigods and pleas…sanction on screens and pages and repeated by drones we’ve hand plucked from the tomb of unsuspecting…canvases.

Because you are nothing unless I make you into my heroine. But your not the drug of this plot. Just the catalyst until I devour inspirations – presented on a platter, soaked in your tears. Which I made.

A league of extraordinary…liars. We breathe into life what your nimble mind couldn’t even imagine. We make tree’s resemble men and men resemble dirt and earth resemble the heart – pulsing and growing and dying and flowing

Into rivers created to sweep away poorly made paragraphs and half assed sentences lingering on the edge of the rocks, reaching out desperately to dead words from dead languages

quid solebat te mori

Because it is not in this segment, this chapter, this section of the trilogy. You last as long as the artist desires, as long as the con must continue. Because every bad thing that happens to you is for some audience to relate and to pity and to empathize and to say “damn, so glad that shit ain’t happenin’ to my ass.”

The air you breathe. We made it be.

The life you conceive. That’s thanks to me.

The dreams you chase. You follow my lead.

The regrets to erase. I give what you need.

Your government, your religion, your desires, your fantasies, your goals, your wonders exist solely because someone somewhere read something we left behind. The flame that makes people hungry, warm, passionate, assiduous. We left the seed that planted the tree that fed the fruit that made shit happen.

We create and then take. And you want us to. Spark up images of demons and defiled innocence, the goddess upon the mount and the mole in the hill, the sad man cradling his dying dog on the street with a sign that begs for food and the triumphant moments of autistic children learning and sharing and loving and knowing…something powerful. We create the bad, the good, the hideous and the microscopic images of perfection, speckled on a dark cloud, raining down upon you maybe once…twice in a lifetime.

That rain you will chase into a forest never seen and you will fight for a love you couldn’t possibly ever know. But you think you can. Because someone, somewhere…wrote about it. And left it on a parchment in the sand. For you. To find. To dream. To reach.

For the stars you cant kiss and the moon you cant touch and the sun you cant really feel because none of it is there. We are the magicians of the world, which is really just a box, a cubicle in a building that isn’t really a building but a tunnel of dirt. And in this tunnel, we are all still and blank and filled with nothing. We have no skin, no bones, no reflections but are the epitome of ghosts.

Until the artist comes. The artists come. The madmen. The delusional sirens projecting their hallucinations onto those tunnel walls, smearing the smudge into enough paint to cover your lifetime. Because nothing you know is yours. It is just another manipulation of ink upon a collection of notes. Your life is not yours, oh no.

This life.

Is just another sentence.

In the book of the Con

Artist.

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1.161 – Here We Go Again

Seems like it’s that time again. No, it’s not November and yet I’m prepping for another go at NaNoWriMo. Apparently, the summer time has become another opportunity for writers to get their work on the page via CampNaNoWriMo.

I participated in the November 2011 challenge and finished the month with a little over 56K. I’ve considered editing the piece I worked on, Dream Catcher, in the months that followed…to no avail. I thought I would do a rewrite but that idea went out the window as well.

Nonetheless, I’m sitting here with my notebook, scribbling down ideas. Funny thing is, the idea I feel strongest about is the one that focuses on religion. Yep, I said it. Religion. I think it’s an interesting concept and one I’ve personally never seen done before though I’m sure someone has covered it in some book I’ve never read. It’s coming from my perspective so…yeah.

June 1st is the start date, although there is a second round of participation starting August 1 – think I can write two books this summer? We shall see.

Either way, I’m excited. I feel like I got a lot done in the month of November and felt most proud as a writer…even though no one has read Dream Catcher and I’m hating it to the point of not ever wanting to edit it and thrusting it in the trash. BUT just getting my work on the page is a huge breakthrough for me. So I’m willing to have a go at it again.

No expectations. Just words. May The Muse remain close.

1.117 – I Quit

On my way home from work, I got to thinking about my writing.

Where the hell is this going? Is it going anywhere at all?

The answers are simple: I don’t know and no. That being said, I start reflecting on why the hell nothing is going nowhere. And I reflect on my own bitter, emotional moment of the day.

It sucks when you feel like people see you for your negative attributes. I float in the ongoing punchline of me being the mean girl. Maybe its’ funny. Shit, maybe it’s true. But I really don’t want to be the mean girl. I’m just extremely sarcastic and extremely…blunt at times. Label it rude, obnoxious, neurotic. Maybe I’m making up for years of living in the damned shadows…I don’t know.

I’m probably all of those negative things and more. But I’d like to be better. My writing is nothing but I’d like it to be more. I’d like to know more than five people are reading this damned blog. I’d like to see my writing flourish into something worth sharing. I’d like to be considered a talent, a person worth knowing, something more than a late night secret friend. Yeah, I said it. Because I know that’s what I am to people. Someone worth knowing in the daytime at a distance and someone worth talking to late at night when no one else is available. My writing is what people read because…well fuck if I know why people read any of this. It’s about the same as me wondering why the hell people waste their time…AND MINE…talking to me.

It’s all a crock, really. It’s all made up. It’s all a badly written work of fiction. It’s all maybes and what-ifs, coulda woulda shouldas and false precedents.

I want to edit Dream Catchers. That will probably never happen. I want to complete Euphoric Damnation…which is on an indefinite pause because the concept sounded good about 5 months ago but now just seems to be a stupid ass story. I want to write a trilogy called Windows – one story told from his perspective, one from her perspective and the final one being the truth. I want to write a humor piece – one story done in several genre formats. I want to re-write Lullaby – a play set in in the voice of suicide and the victim. I want to write Killing Off Allison. I want to compile my poetry and finish The Dark Room. I want, I want, I want…to write, to write, to write…

BUT

I wont do any of it. Because I’m one of those fucking people. I’m all talk. Because attempting at putting these ideas to paper will force me to realize that I’m a fake. I’m no fucking writer. I’m just one of those people who spews out ideas. And the majority of them suck ass.

I want people to think better of me. I want to be valued for what’s in this mind of mine. I want there to be a reason I am the way I am. I thought writing was my justification. But maybe…no, I’m pretty sure…there is no justification. I’m just not what I thought I was. I’m nobody…babbling on about nothing. I’m a con artist – making you believe I’m strong, smart, pretty, artistic, confidant, secure. But I am none of those things. I am a weakling, screaming for acceptance at the top of my lungs. The problem is…no one seems to hear me. Or maybe they do. Which is by far the worst of fates.

Maybe this is just a majorly self-deprecating emo moment. But for the first time in 20 years, I’m almost certain it’s time to give this shit up. My fear of rejection obviously outweighs my desire to live the dream. Story of my fucking life. The self doubt is debilitating. And I’m over feeling like a crippled woman, friend, artist. I just want to fade into the backdrop and pretend it never mattered.

My love affair with writing is over.

That’s it. I quit. I’m moving on. (Thanks Sam Cooke).