Tantrum

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.

Smithers, release the axolotls!


© Brave Axolotl

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Frustration

The blank page leapt out from the computer screen and slapped him across the face. Alt least, it felt like it had. He’d been daydreaming again. Doodling. He always had a tendency to draw on himself when he was naked. Being naked was supposed to help with the uh, the thing. Hemmingway used to write naked, or was it Hugo? Someone famous. The top of his right thigh bore the fruits of a brown felt-tip pen. There was a skull and crossbones, a race car, a topless women with impossibly huge knockers. He put the pen down and forced his hands back to the keyboard. He was ready to write now, but the story wasn’t coming. It was supposed to be a horror. But he didn’t understand horror. Oh, he’d read the class-notes, but it just didn’t feel natural. Why couldn’t they have a fantasy assignment, or at least the option. He’d rather write about fire-breathing dragons and little green goblins dancing in their caches of ill-gotten gold. Well maybe he could get away with trolls and dwarves if they got loose with their axes and some heads rolled. And it could be set in a castle. That’s a good start. His fingers wriggled. “The night was Dark and stormy” appeared on the screen. “Oh holy fuck!” He yelled. “Son of a bitch! To hell with this, and to hell with Poe’s Raven in a fucking pear-tree!.”  

Back at the computer with a strong cup of coffee. Extra sugar. Perhaps he should bang out some poetry first. Simple verse. He wasn’t too bad at that, although he had nothing on the young brunette at the night-class. She had a rare talent and made it look so easy. Pity she had a boyfriend, or was it a girlfriend? Her poems were not about sex; they were about the most mundane things – Bricks, teapots, a pack of playing-cards – And yet they could only be about sex; when she spoke of tea-pots, the words seemed to drip off her sweet quivering lips like erotic pearls of moisture; the lyric cadences rising and falling like her breasts. When she spoke of playing-cards, her voice seemed to emanate from some dimension of orgasmic bliss. Building up. Swelling. He was masturbating now. “Damn – this isn’t helping!”

The coffee wasn’t helping. Pacing the room wasn’t helping. Cursing the Norse Gods had little effect. Ditto, the Greek Gods. He didn’t have the nerve to try summoning a demon, although that wasn’t a bad idea: Demons were pretty horrible. I wonder how the brunette is doing. Sitting in front of the computer again. He cleared the screen and the blank page seemed to sneer at him. Typing. “The brunette was dark and sultry” materialised. “Oh for fucks-sake.” He imagined her sitting in front of her own computer. Did she get frustrated? Did she ever find it hard.  Words just seemed to pour out of her effortlessly. Did she get undressed to write? Her skill is so … her skin is so clear and she speaks golden light as the long hair cascades off her shoulders rolling down the slopes of her breasts mmmmmm. His hand had slipped off the keyboard again. Well, Fuck it –  may as well finish one thing tonight.  


© Grumpy Axolotl

So … What’s Next?

2016 !  Heck – I remember being concerned about the Y2K-bug, and the sense of relief when I woke up on 1st-Jan 2000 to find that my home still had electricity (I was into weird sex even back then).

I don’t do new-year’s resolutions. The resolution of this tablet’s display is high enough already, thank you very much. “Retina”, Apple calls it.

Grumpy Axolotl has been pseudo-grumping for 2 years now (I had a previous wordpress blog with a different name and very little on it which is now sleeping with the Automattic-fish). I say pseudo-grumping, as most of my rants are fairly tame really, or at least, tackle non-controversial subjects. I thought I would have a lot to say about political issues, but actually, I don’t. Or maybe I do, but … If I genuinely feel strongly about something, I’ve already read an opinion-piece that beats the pants off anything I could have written, and I have nothing to add. See, I’m actually fairly new to writing and get frustrated easily. I can string together a grammatically correct sentence, but paragraphs and form are a real struggle. Ooh, I’m feeling the grump today. And what if I say something factually incorrect? Wrong. Wrong – On the fucking Internet. Oh, for shame! I’ll lose all my followers and be forced to change my name and move to a land far-far-away that no-one’s ever heard of, such as New Zealand. Hey – Get your filthy hands off my ewe!

XKCD nails it:

duty_calls

I don’t want to be a part of that.

After a somewhat-hiatical 2015, I’ve been investing more effort lately, and poetry seems to be my strong-point (or at least something I can get away with). Fiction is something I still wish to dabble in. I’m not interested in writing novels. That’s not for lack of confidence; I’m simply not interested. Novels are for reading. I do wish to create short-stories though, and I’ve recently rediscovered micro-fiction. I think I can build on that. I really enjoyed my recent one-sentence post: Recipe for Disaster. I was in a cafe with my writing notebook and saw a glass-lidded cake-thingy-container with the words “Cheese-Scones” written on it. Hey presto! – story. That doesn’t happen often enough.

Maybe I should resolve to use fewer commas and exclamation-marks!

Oh, and you can ignore that weird-sex comment at the beginning.  I just threw that in because sex sells!, though I do genuinely enjoy ** BLOGGING ERROR 3.14159: TOO-MUCH-INFORMATION. POST TERMINATED. **

The Writing Space

Everyone has a favourite place to write.  I have several.  One of my favourites is a pub that’s only 15 min drive from my house.  I go there for the food, and because it’s quiet on a Saturday afternoon.  This afternoon was a good a time as any to head there.  I was having one of those awful writing fuckalump moments where I can’t quite find any topic remotely interesting despite living in a world of endless possibilities.  Since I was hungry to boot, the best course of action was obvious.

Having ordered my usual insulin-tickling mochaccino and plate of hot chips, I took my favourite spot outside and made ready to pen my next award-winning post in peace and quiet. It was quiet until three motorcycle gangs turned up, including the Hells Angels.

The gang-members themselves weren’t particularly loud, but close to one hundred roaring motorcycles arriving in the space of 10 minutes is hard not to notice. It must have been a convention.  As space in the outside courtyard was rapidly diminishing, I decided to head back inside, where it would be quieter.  Once inside, I realised my mistake and headed back outside, where it was quieter.  I finished my meal, decided against tracing the interesting smoke back to its source and headed home with something to write about.

Have you ever played dominoes?  It’s a game where you pick the first of a line of 100 parked motorcycles and … collect your Darwin Award.