What I’m about to reveal will probably make me sound like a sociopath. Method Actors do it all the time and it seems accepted. However, for an author, because projects we work on can take months if not years…I understand why it might be difficult to maintain a relationship with us.
It’s been over a year since I’ve created a new story. In 2019, I was 32-years-old and after committing myself to books and screenplays for a decade, decided to commit myself to other aspects of adult life…like advancing in a corporate job, becoming a homeowner, and building relationships with real people. In that, 2019 was a success. I’ve progressed and accomplished everything I set out to do.
But still…Despite everything I’ve done, I confess that nothing on earth has given me greater pleasure than escaping to another world and writing down everything I see. I can’t overstate this enough. 2019 has been the longest I’ve gone without creating anything new, and while I am happy…I don’t feel fulfilled. Yes, I’ve written critical essays here and there…but fiction is where it’s at.
Everything else just seems ephemeral. I know that one day I will die and memories of me will fade. I’m just a tenant on this earth. The condo I bought will belong to someone else. My money and possessions will be given to someone else or discarded. And if last summer has taught me anything when a co-worker took his own life…people’s perception of who you are, is pretty much whatever they want it to be, regardless if it’s true. Continue Reading
Anna Marie and Gladys are terrorists on the run…but its not the government they fear. They betrayed a deadly society of feminists. The Swords of St. Catherine have come for payback.
Lightning from Final Fantasy XIII
I opened my eyes to a gray ceiling fan with cracks in the wood. Everything looked old, as if the house was taken straight from a post-civil war documentary. The windows were milky and stained. The dresser looked like a device for splinters. My bed was twin size with a rusty iron headboard. Even my pillow was stuffed with real feathers. I could feel the stems pricking through the pillowcase, scratching at my neck.
My bullet wounds were patched up. Someone had sewn me shut and dressed me in a faded pink nightgown. There was a table on the other side of the room with a pitcher and two tin cups. I was thirsty like you wouldn’t believe, so I got up.
Anyone wondering if I was awake wouldn’t have to wonder long. I was so weak. My bones felt brittle. As soon as I tried to stand, I crumbled to the floor with this wooden crash that probably sounded much louder than it was. The problem was, I couldn’t hear anyone else. I was on the second floor and sound carried.
Not wanting to break anything, I hugged the wall and hobbled to the table like an old woman. There was nothing in the pitcher. I expected water.
Timed perfectly with my groan was a howling wind that rustled through the last leaves of a withering tree just outside my window. And through the branches, I saw the distant figure of Anna Marie all dressed in black. She was deep in the woods and her long hair shrouded her face, but I knew it was her. I grabbed sheets from the bed, wrapped up, and left.
The Perennial War of Paramours Gladys Vandelay – For the Living By Rock Kitaro
In the downstairs kitchen was a family of African-Americans. A mother, a father, and three toddlers. They were all so quiet as fuck that it creeped me out. I could sense the feeling was mutual. They stared like I was a ghost wandering the halls. No one said anything, not even so much as a greeting.
Finally, I just shuffled over to their breakfast table and grabbed about four strips of bacon. “Thank you.” I whispered before scurrying off. But of course, my bed sheets got caught on the crease in the floorboard. I tripped, scraping my knees and the children laughed. I whipped around to see which ones, but only caught the tail end of the mother snapping her fingers at them.
“Who are you people?” I asked.
“The owners of the house you’re staying in.” the father told me.
“I don’t suppose you have a name?”
“Just call me the caretaker.”
I squinted at him. “Did you put me in this nightgown?”
The mother rolled her neck with spiked brows, a matrimonial warning, not worth ignoring. So I threw up my hands and whispered, “Sorry.” Continue Reading
Here’s the issue with Sarah Jeong. For those who don’t know, she made racist posts about white people in the past, and despite this, the New York Times has hired her as an editor. Like the author of this video, I agree that people shouldn’t be fired or have their careers ruined for things they said in the past. People change. They improve. And i’m not on board with the mob mentality.
The problem is…this is the New York Times. Right now, journalists and the publishing industry are taking a beating battling the accusations of being biased and unfair leanings. If you’re in charge of a company like the New York Times, why would you hire someone who clearly has a racist past? And then go so far as to defend her by doing as so many have done, just pull the victim card.
This affects me directly because as many of you may know, I’m an author. Since I was 23, I’ve been trying to break into the publishing industry and have made huge gains. I’ve long since seen how the publishing industry has increasingly become left-wing in their politics. Most of the Literary Agents are women and if you look at their wish-lists, most of them are in search of stories with “strong female protagonists,” stories about LGBT characters, and intersectional conflicts.
I have no complaints about that. These are the cards I’ve been dealt. So I accepted the challenge and rose to the occasion, producing stories with a strong female protagonist that tackle many social issues. I’ve seen books published with horrible proses and age-old tired premises. These make the best-seller lists. They make the bestseller lists based on advertising, online marketing, and reviews. Therein lies the rub.
The New York Times is one of the most influential entities when it comes to that advertising and the reviews. Yes, some conservative authors have made it onto their lists, no doubt much to their chagrin…but its a small percentage. And if companies like the New York Times are hiring editors, basically the gate-keepers to commercial success, with clearly racists, misogynistic, gynocentric ,…basically anyone who has proven that they can’t possibly be perceived as fair and impartial…what’s the point?
That saying comes to mind. “If you’re so smart, then why aren’t you rich?”
To me, the answer is clear. It’s because I’m not willing to do “just anything”. I won’t stoop to bashing others for shock value, I won’t pander to an audience and contribute to the illusion that’s continued to keep the young and impressionable blinded from the truth. And more importantly, I won’t jeopardize one of the few things I actually love about being alive. And that’s writing about what I want, because I want to.
That’s why I’m so glad I’ve been able to reconnect with my heavenly father. In my twenties, I was so distant from him. I cared so much about being seen as great and wonderful in the eyes of “the world.” But I’m not part of the world. Ever since my parents embedded me with a Christian foundation, I never have been, no matter how much I tried to run from it.
The Lord is my salvation, my shield, my king, my shepherd, my judge, my refuge, my fortress, my vindicator, my creator, my deliverer, my healer, my protector, my provider, my redeemer.
Thank you Jehovah for stretching out your wings and bringing me back to the fold.
Well, Rock! If you endeavor to do what is good in God’s eyes, then why do you care about the New York Times and Sarah Jeong?
…I never said I stopped caring. I still want to be a published author and until the day I die, I won’t give up on that dream. But I no longer care “so much”. It isn’t a priority. Now, I seek first the kingdom of heaven. If you don’t know what that means, send me a message and I’ll happily point you in the right direction.