Monthly Archives: January 2015

Reflection beneath the skin.

Reflection beneath the skin.

The first person view we hold let’s us see our hands and all it has
accomplished. From the sand it was built and the risks we took.
A certain man could listen to his voice and all that jazz… maybe proud.
Another will reflect upon his reflection and feel lacking in muscle.
These thoughts are seldom tussled with to go beneath the skin.

Though subconsciously we hear the ticking clock and we fear that the alarm was set.
Though, this knowledge is only a thought away… we tend to forget.
Those who go to deep will sink so far, or so
they say. Then what is this life more than the changing of the guard?
Big Bens and little men taking risks after risk to grapple for their
own existence.

Seldom do they ask who provides their breath, food.
And aquatic needs till end.
A chemical process of course- a quick response given by the brainless lab coat and his biased lens.
All knowing? Maybe not. Looking at his hands… to the ticking clock.

Another can look back and smile at his mansions and sport cars. His bid he placed for a great life and so he did.
Green paper and crystal clear diamonds… and of course that little sip of water. Then he also faces the common cold
that consumes us all. Maybe near his end if the alarm rings long… his thoughts will deepen, but just maybe or not at all.
No blanket brings the comfort to a restless soul like that old green one. Yet the dying body feels the cold like no other.

Even the family man can look at his home and think about generations to come.
Just bodies of loved ones beneath the dirt. Soon they will all be gathered.
Though this might seem dumb.
It would be as if nothing mattered.

But things do matter, they adamantly demand. Survival of our species and the existence of our kind. It’s seems to me that we are respecters of certain molecules of a higher order. We have contributed so much to this pretty planet.
Hero shim… ah, have we forgotten? So torn. Nag and shake the drinks for we live for now don’t we?
What a lovely view of this higher organism… surviving and thriving.
Looking these days at pixels on a screen… lifeless mind you.
A slave to the dead.

There are other views… a man in a big hat and many tics sucking the blood out of the free market.
Both kissing babies… one for government and another for Rome.
Terrorists follow their hearts and so do the poli prayers. Hoping that their dueling gods can save this man.
Save from what?
The most important question no one brings up.

Thou dare not point to the homo sapiens. Even the greenies say otherwise, but they only scratch
the surface of their heads and bellies of the cuter arrangement of molecules.
Save us from our own random chemical reactions of course.

There is another view that discusses the nature of things and man.
This is a sinking ship, but it can be pretty sometimes.
The core of this organism is corrupted. Even passed on.
It’s more than genetics, you know?
That’s why the magnitude of the God Man that died for this corrupted hearts
is so profound.
That a King should suffer for less than an ant.
However, this is only a vessel and the road to redemption is as
simple as climbing on the lifeboat.
The mocking molecules will go down in the abyss,
but you, oh Christians will sing in your bliss.



I wonder if you want to
look forward to the blue.
Monday, they play and sometimes
mocking you with ambition and

If only they knew your strife.
Bending and picking, placing
papers in their metal casing.
While the others are talking and

What a life to behold, but food
won’t be scarce. That is a fact like an ant.
And if the blue suit makes you

Lighten up, your mind is yours.
Their luxuries, theirs. Distractions at their best.
Keep on smiling and sing the blues.
You won’t sing them forever when we’re all in the bin.

The Other Side of the Tracks

This title could also have been Why Characters Trump Plots, but you know… you’ll understand later. Consider every novel or movie you have grown to love and think about what makes it so special. I doubt it is the plot, because in your mind you have probably said the characters’ names. They are the core of each story whether you like it or not. I know that a lot of people can come up with outrageously good plots, but they simply can’t pen them, because they can’t create the person in the middle of it all. Create a mediocre plot though with an interesting character and you will still succeed, but create a mediocre character in a good plot then people will call you out faster than a kid telling an adult that he or she is lying.

This is why it doesn’t really matter what plot you came up with as great characters will lead you to better plots, but even if not, they are like family. To you… and to your readership. So if you take a beloved family member and place them in jail or in the bad side of town. Or even if they are filthy… blood is thicker than water. You still care about them. The same goes for characters. I am not saying that you need to write an average plot. No, I am saying that the best characters will utilize an author’s mind to its full capability. (if such a thing is possible) If you can make readers care about your characters then you already won more than half of the battle. Though I don’t like comparing writing to battle unless war is fun. Maybe it is.

I am getting sidetracked. The point is that no matter where in the universe your great character finds himself or herself. The plot will never be more important than character.

Killing Tales

Sometimes the best way to be strong is to protect one’s weaknesses. It can also be a very good thing to look at how people fail and why people fail. More importantly, why we sometimes fail. When it comes to stories you only need an attitude to kill it.

After you have toiled through hours of typing, plotting and writing, you get time to reflect. Usually this can only happen if you care about the story you told, but many times authors look back at half a story or sometimes even a first draft and they get that blasé feeling. The root of the problem can be that you have lost that caring feeling. You don’t really care about characters, but about writing a book. The problem with this attitude is that writers’ own feelings will only set the amplitude of what they had written.

Let me explain what this amplitude means. It means that no one will care more about your story than you do, ever. So if you want your readers to not care, then all you have to do is write till the end with this attitude. Writing is like an endurance race in the same way that life is. To kill a tale is as simple as cutting off all love and care for characters and the world where they live. I know it sounds weird, but the cave rat told me that is what I need to tell you. (Just joking. That’s a reference to a game you guys won’t know.)

The real question is whether you can repair your relationship with characters. Of course you can as characters are only a subset of your own mind. Treat your characters as if they are real, because the readers (at least the majority) will not do this unless the author does. Get ready for some tough times, because they will happen. Then think whether you want to kill the story or not. In my mind it is murder, ’cause that’s how much I care about those figments of my imagination.

Mad Scientists

Mad Scientists

We all laugh at the sight of that
little red fictional button.
We can’t imagine why people will write
something so… nonsensical.

Maybe it reflects what we already know.
A little button in our chests.
We only need to follow and then…
Sometimes we fight… we have to.

We need to. This is our lab, isn’t it?
We need to. Press the button.
At the end… we are allowed.
Self destruction… we only kill ourselves.

Rhetorical Question

This is one of my poems. I sometimes write poems based on fiction, because I feed off fiction and reality. The following poem is actually a humorous one I came up with. It is where humor and tragedy meet and I strive to do this in novels too.

Rhetorical Question

When I asked you to join me
that day, I needed the obvious
that was simple.
I feed off despair and sadness,
but pity is taking it too far.

Your face read like a book.
I’m a writer… believe me I know.
A simple no, but no…yes.
Welcome to the pity party.
You could have been silent and
just shook your head.
Then your sorry made me sorry
like watching a bad talent show.

Perhaps I should have told you…
it was a rhetorical question.

Tug of War

Something is certain: to commit yourself to writing is hard when you have many responsibilities like a job or if you are a student. Only holidays can truly set you on your way or maybe a retirement. The thing is we can’t only write when we have time. Nothing is free and time is so precious. Thus, we need to sacrifice some of our so called free time to write. If you are a successful writer then things are different. Most writers aren’t and might never be. The statistic can make you feel so small and yet we all know that sales should never be the measurement of quality when it comes to things like fiction. No doubt, some of the best sellers are indeed some of the best works of fiction in the world, however they are sometimes also the worst.

So life can tug you back to reality where you need to return to the never ending cubicle or maybe also a fun job, but we don’t lie when we are in reality. Writing is the thing. That’s what keeps me going sometimes. Both writing and life can be like two parties in a tug of war and the ultimate solution would be balance until, if you really are great, a writing career. Even then you will need balance. I can probably write a book on why I write fiction. One of the reasons, like I have said before, is that I couldn’t imagine a life with no fiction or art. For a second I took away all writers and it scared me. Take away engineers and it is also scary, but that is obvious. That said, story telling is an ancient skill and today people will pay money for it. Why not?

Writing is a lot more than simply putting down tales and ink in some sequence. It delivers a message like any other piece of art and in some of the best ways. Don’t get me wrong, I am not an art nut… because I am not. I love subjects like math and physical science. I just can’t place myself as a leader in that field and be happy about it. I only pray that my day job doesn’t kill my writing, because that would be a pity. You should never stop reminding yourself what you have written and why you have written it. Writing has a lot to do with worldview and morals. That is one of the reasons why I love writing. Sure, we can write a sappy one if we like, but that is something I won’t do.

Be committed in whatever you dream to change it into goals. Be it writing or not. (assuming you guys are authors)

Lay Down Your Twigs

Charge the castle and believe. They have the heart and the guts, but no brains.
Positive they will conquer or preparing for the fun of battle.
Lay down your twigs.
They charge the pristine castle. They hate the good King.
Some imagine that the castle doesn’t exist, but they swing.

Somebody paid the ransom… their only chance – a gift.
There’s food and shelter and safety and beauty.
However they love the mud, because they are free.
Freedom, is a lie. They are caught by their own…
they do what they want.
Lay down your twigs.
Time is running out, yet they laugh.
The castle is just a mirage.
Staring motionless at the merciful gun…

Every second fun and so free, but still gearing up for war.
Invading the country.
Lay down your straw.
Even those with white flags needed help to give up. Not so free, hey?
Lay down your twigs.
Battering, beating, biting and kicking.
Staring down the barrel.
Fighting till their end.

A hopeless sight.
And funny too, because every tree was planted by the King.
Swinging like blind men. Cursing and invading.
Don’t bring a knife to a gun fight?
Lay down your twigs.


The beating sun stopped… a hopeful kid
In his wake it left him stumped… so he left the court.
Revisited the sight at the sight of someone else
and it rekindled a love for all things circular
Then she also left and in her wake, he was left, yet
the love was set and balls new. Lonely rackets and
the sun beat.
Shadows were in his wake.

Years later he picked up a pen.
The beating times did not stop him then
and he wasn’t alone. The tide of words flowed
together with a friend who lead him there.
Then he also seemed to leave and in his wake he
was left, yet the love was inscribed and papers blank.
Lonely pitter patter of keys and distractions were beat.
He feared that things would never change. He feared
the shadows in his wake.

The pen and racket became part of him.
Those two things he held close… perhaps a reminder
of a happier time. A lone ranger in his mind.
He used them and loved them like
useful portraits on a wall.
And with both
new people met. Some destroyed with aces
and others with ink.
A safe built… to forget the shadows in his wake


All the parades and shouting for level ground, but level
is not high and never will be.
Measure is not right and wealth looked upon in a wrong way, but the broader the base
the stronger the form unlike this.
The line above is narrow.
I broke the fourth wall, but they broke the fourth floor. Look at the broad base now… almost there.

The tower will collapse, but that is what they want.
Level ground and in a way that is fine.
Excluding all the hunger the ground brings.
No tower will be allowed. It is wrong.
Level ground. The words repeated.
Dogmatic. Floating in the clouds,
but men can’t fly.

The fuel burns out and they fall as
the base broke… and
now the they’re broke
and the people are broken,
for they only see happiness
at the