I lost my headphones.

I didn't necessarily need them today. It was more of a random, sudden need to listen to music while I pooped in my bathroom. My poops (not that you need to know) don't always, actually hardly ever, consist of a music jam. Hell, most of the time I just listen to music in the car. Today however, it was weird. I was met with the need to relieve my bowels while listening to this song I've been playing on repeat. It wasn't something easy to let go of either. Matter of fact, I kind of threw a tantrum.

I wrestled my thoughts in my head for minute after minute, in my head countless possibilities for their disappearance took place. Multiple times I checked under my bed and my brothers (yes, we sleep in the same room). He had a habit of taking my stuff without asking, something which I, quite frankly, detest. So naturally in my mind a scenario played in which he took them to school or something. Just a week or so ago, my mother gave him his own pair of headphones, so he had no reason to take mine. Just like any fool would do, I began to come up with reasons as to why he would chose mine over his. Of course I'm the older brother so my headphones are better than his, that could be one reason. The other might as well be just to mess with me, to anger me on purpose.
I questioned him about it and he knew nothing of the matter; even though he sounded believable, I refused to believe. Caught in my own web of poisonous thoughts, I began to grow angry with him. There was no reason to say anything further for the time, so I didn't but rest assured I more than positive it had been him.

"I'll help you look for them later." He said to me, and now these words haunt me.

Two days before I posted this, on a Thursday, a guy came into our apartments to fix some blinds on my window. Right next to said window is my night table in which I had last placed my headphones. Again in my mind I began to play a scenario in which he had taken them. Maybe by mistake he had grabbed them along with his cell phone. I mean that was entirely plausible, shit, even him stealing them was plausible. Unfortunately that's where we live, no, not in a world of thieves but in a world of possibilities.

I began to blame him now, the stranger who had done a good deed for my window. The day progressed and I asked my mother if she had seen them, she had not. Maybe my stepfather had taken them. Also someone who had borrowed from me in the past. In summary I suspected everybody, even the god damn president.

I consider myself to be a good person, yet I think like this. I may be only human nature but still, it bothers me. And it bothers me only because I was so fucking wrong. I spent nearly two hours of my life searching for these headphones which were white and have now over time grown yellow. I looked everywhere I could think off (including the restroom). I even forgot all about my poop.

They were right next to the nightstand, on the floor. I probably knocked them over at night as I stretched, or maybe my brother, or maybe the repair man. Shit, who knows. What bothers me the most is how easy it was for me to assume the worse. Thinking back, the right answer, the most likely explanation is the most logical one. Maybe the reason why we fail to want to believe it is because we hate to think that we are capable of doing anything stupid or bad to ourselves. The truth is, we do, and we do it everyday. At least, now I know I do.

Thinking back, I probably did knock them over and was just to lazy to pick them up. Yeah, I'm human alright.

Hemingway discovered Fitzgerald, who will discover me?

So, I'm working on my second book. I like it. It's good, if i do say so myself. Anyway, that led me to do a lot of thinking about my writing. I just started this blog, I don't have any type of fan base or anything close to that. It made me question why I'm still writing. Why am I writing something that is in risk of possibly never being read by any type of sort of audience? Why?

A good question. A sad question. A REAL question.

The answer is, why the fuck not? Why has anyone, EVER, done anything?

Honestly, I think the answer should be; "because they fucking can!"

I know I'm good at what I do, even though (believe me) I have my moments of crippling doubt.
Shit.. as much as I would LOVE to be the next Hemingway, I know that is impossible. Honestly, I know that and you do too and it's okay. Want to know why? BECAUSE HEMINGWAY IS DEAD AND FUCKING BURIED.

Way I see it is, I can either live to be better or worse than him. If I get lucky, both.
As far as my first book goes, I thought it was ready for publishing. I still, secretly, know it is. But maybe, just maybe it could do with some more editing, maybe another 20 thousand words. Bring the total count up to 80k. Maybe then these lovely suits down at the publishers office will give me a contract.

By God, I swear this is all I want. Give me a contract and I will give you the best stories!

Let a writer, write without the constant plague of a day job. God knows how hard it is to keep one.

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past" F. Scott Fitzgerald , The Great Gatsby

That book was barely over 50 thousand words and it became fucking gold. Also, back then we had publishers who cared about talent, and prose and literature. Books are a business now, and that is the problem.

Maybe self publishing is the best option.

I got to go, the passion from this post is making my left arm hurt. Maybe if I die Death of a Poet will sell, huh.

Blog Hop!

WHENEVER, you get a chance to add an actual published author as a friend on Facebook, you do it! She posted as her status to see if anyone was interested in a "Blog Hop" my first question was, "What is that?" second question was, "Do I really want to start a Blog?" so, here I am. Blogging and stuff.

Okay, there are four questions that are the focus of this particular exercise, they are as follows:

1. What are you working on?

Currently, I'm working on getting my second novel finished. My first work was Death of a Poet, for which I'm still seeking publication. This second story is called Santary and it is a bit dark. For the time being I can tell you it is about a well known author named Edgar Santary (a fictional character) who has been tormented by the endless request from his fans. All they want is a final book from him, something he can no longer do. (writers block) He begins to suffer from headaches and one night while searching for inspiration in Central Park, he comes across a woman who is need of help. His way of helping (do to the headache) is a little unconventional, he wants to end her life. Something he sees as the only way to help. Pretty dark stuff...

2. Hos does my work differ from other's in its genre?

Hmm, though question. Considering I don't really have a genre per say. What I can say that the main focus of all my work is to write as honestly as possible. "All you have to write is one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know" Ernest Hemingway.
I've based my whole writing style on that quote alone, from the thoughts of my characters, to my thoughts of my characters. All my work will be honest, it will be dirty and it will stir you; for good or bad.

3. Why do I write what I do?

I do what I do because I do what I do. Honestly, I do it because like many authors I don't have a choice. Any single person can silence their lips for an eternity but no single person can silence the heart, soul and mind. My flesh may be weak and scared but my words on paper are fierce and true.
That and I also feel like we as a society no longer speak up, something that troubles me deeply.

BEAR WITH ME, JUST ONE MORE QUESTION!

4. How does your writing process work?

I don't know, if you ever find out, please tell me. Nah, I kid, I kid. Unfortunately I cannot write during the day, so most if not all my work comes at night. Not really a morning person so I have to wait until my mind is awake. Usually around 7 PM. I don't outline, or plot or anything. Actually, I feel rather strange to even say it but I only write what the characters do. Put in more poetic ways, I'm but a vessel in which the magic that is story telling unfolds. And even if if makes me sound crazy (believe me it does) my characters are real, they choose and live as their own. The only way I could ever write is by coming up with an idea for a story and then BOOM, a character introduces himself to me through his choices. I'm just the guy upstairs, watching him or her as he or she lives and dies for our pleasure.

Well, there you have it. Blog Hop! Big shout out to the talented Lisa Crane, you can find her blog here.
Be sure to check out her amazing work and comment if you would like to participate in our Blog Hop!

Envy is green!

         As I grow older (as I've come to now, do) I realize more and more how little I'm in control. Short years ago, I remember envying my mother, uncles, and pretty much any older person EVER; all on the belief that they were somehow free-er than me and somehow better. Now, at the peak of my twenty years of existence, have realized that envy was an ugly color on me and that we usually envy that which we don't understand. It has been the common belief for some time now (always) that we envy that which we want. Really, what is it that we want though? Money? Power? Sex? All of that and more? No, I see now that the simplicity of life lies under something more...grotesquely simple. WE JUST WANT TO BE UNDERSTOOD. Really, I swear it.

I mean, of course there are other things, love being the one that just screams at me.
Envy is a funny thing, and even though it gets a bad rep, I have personally come to the understanding that envy is just a person like ourselves. A mirror image if you will; it shows us not who we are but who we could be, who we WERE. Envy is a misunderstood person, just as we all were, have been and will be.

This was a short realization, perhaps a wrong one or perhaps, too spot on. Regardless, the clock continues to tick and tock and dance. Shall we join it?