I really enjoy writing, and I suck at it. I hate most of what I have written. I hate what I’m working on at the moment and I hate the stuff I haven’t even written yet. Actually, what I really hate is that nothing I write is as good as I think it should be, and the icing on that shit-cake is that I don’t know how to fix it.
But I’m not going to stop. Because I know the only way I can get better is to write, write, write, write, and then write some more.
I’ve realised something. I’ve been too nice. I want people to read my blog, so I hold it all in and don’t end up writing the things I want to write. That sux. It’s not good for me or for you.
I have some stories on the way. I don’t expect anyone to like them, but I can’t go on hiding out of fear that people are going to think I’m some sick weirdo and unfollow me if I publish the stories I want to write. Fear may be merely a product of the mind, but publishing stuff is fucking scary! People read, make assumptions. Well, if I suck, so be it. I need to stop letting fear hold me back. I need to grow.
Writing this has made my cry a little. So sue me.
A big thank-you to everyone who has read, like or commented on my work. You are gold. No-one likes preaching to an empty church.
Essence of slithering snake-oil
Drifting upon the air
Bemixt with mist of mushroom
Permeating baffled bedsheets
A malodorous melody for your malady
The witch-doctor is in the house
The witch-doctor is in your house
They come in all shapes and sizes. Actually they don’t really; they are all made out of tiffy-taffy and all very much the same. It’s the packaging that varies wildly. Walking down that aisle of the supermarket, it always fills one with superstitious and suspicious awe and wonder. The explosion of colors, patterns, styles. The uplifting mantras of confidence, hope, protection. The miracle of life, the mystery, the wish for a hysterectomy, the .. what the fuck?