# something (I’ve forgotten and only conformity suggests I go and check. I won’t do that)

Oh well, it’s not exactly paper-publishing, but this is also the 21st century and if I’m any kind of futurist, I should put some work in this new cloud based, e-reader hardware fad going on.

So, without further ado:


This link here takes you to a cheap, cheap, cheap short story I wrote and mentioned in the last entry.

I’m told It’s actually really rather good, hence launching it onto Amazons KDP service with the fervour of a kid in sweet shop on pocket money day.

I’d appreciate any feedback anyone would so care to leave!

Kind Regards and 17 kisses.


#9 – Rebirth, Renewed, Ready.

I’m sooooo glad I’m able to write this Blog. This little journal of sorts. I’ve no idea why or what I’m going to put in this entry, the penultimate before the tenth, so bear with as I prepare my thoughts. Much creative stuff has happened so I’ll need to chop this all into bite size portions for easy digestion.

There was once a wall I stared at that had nothing on it. Then, after boredom of staring at nothing, the wall became decorated with a simple poster.

The image was an ocean meeting land, in the night, with moonlight reflecting off all the little details in ways to hint to the viewer of a hidden world. At the top, in an eye-friendly font, was the word ‘INSPIRATION’. At the bottom was written, ‘CAN COME FROM THE DARKEST OF PLACES’.

Now this is an old, old picture I recall, and my tastes have somewhat matured since then, but I did have it in mind when writing the last story I’ve just finished and sent off to a publisher.

But this story was more fascinating to me than previous ones, as this story was inspired not from a wanton, free-roaming obtrusive thought, as is typical with my head, but from a real life person! Not only that, but this story also didn’t involve lasers and aliens, or hyper-velocity kinetic missiles aimed at rampaging robots piloted by a genetically modified Sloth* army – no.
This story involved nothing more than a mere human. In fact, it even touched upon human emotions in a way I’ve never dealt with before.

So, what had this person done to inspire in my Sci-Fi fussy head a relatively normal story about a normal, everyday person? That person had painted a picture, quite simply. But it was no simple picture.

I’m allowed to do what I will with the picture, so have taken the liberty of showing you lovely folk.

A Serene Frame For Madness

A Serene Frame For Madness

I had no idea my new friend painted. That they liked art, yes, but not created it. I vividly remember the moment when I first saw this picture. It came as a text, a picture message even. I was mesmerised as I am now still. Proof being that just after I wrote mesmerised in that sentence just gone, I started day dreaming again. Only a few seconds have passed you by whilst you’ve been reading, but take it from me that this paragraph has actually taken about ten minutes to write. I have it pretty bad in swift-retrospect.

So anyway, I stared at this picture, and suddenly this entire story just whams into my head. No idea why, how or the like, but it was just there. Even the title. These things came to me like they were just memories, so rapid was their unfolding within me. It was late in the day when I saw the picture, but I knew it would remain fresh for the next day. I just knew it.

After work, I rushed home, did the usual pieces, and then sat down to write. In less than an hour, I was looking at 1600 words of my finest work to date (meaning I was really really happy with it). I was utterly, utterly enthralled and amazed at what affect a painting had on me. sure, I’ve stared at hundreds of pictures, and each has inspired stories, but with the gravity of actually knowing the person who painted this one, I felt drawn to it more than I can ever recall. To give you some insight into how this picture is still rippling in me thoughts – this all happened on the 16th May. It’s June, now. June the 1st.

This short story is called A Serene Frame For Madness (because the artist hadn’t even named her painting!).
I intend to sell it and feel quite prepared to send to publishers I normally wouldn’t consider. All I have to do is wait and wait.

Yet it wasn’t just a story the painting inspired. I even felt like I had to actually read it out to the artist themselves in some kind of homage to them. it went badly, as I really don’t have a voice for public speaking – think Simon Amstell getting kicked in the nuts. Actually, don’t do that – it will ruin the blog. My voice is really like molten chocolate being poured onto ice-cream. Yes. It’s very tasty. That’s all you need to know.

True to form, you may also know I often put little personal bits of my life into this blog so I’ve no shame in admitting during the time I spent with the artist, I found I actually fancied her a bit so kind of clammed up. I can write that as I know she won’t get time to read this. She’s off being awesome elsewhere. Also moving away from home town so I was a little sad about the timing there. Yet if she did read this little blog, she’d reach this sentence in which I’m going to say I think you are the most interesting and beautiful person I’ve met so far.

Readers, I wish I had what it took to be by her side. Let’s all laugh at the irony of that, as I think I lack the necessary qualities so it’s quite funny really.

Oh, and not only did the painting inspire a story, but the story and everything revolving around it inspired a composition that you can listen to here:-

If life is a book, then I close this chapter and move on. Damn. Ah well.

Life is busy, and I’ve been holding true to that.

I started working on getting a plan together for the actual novel. And if I can just remember to take my damned USB stick to work to print all my writing, I can finish putting what’s in my head onto the wall.

PERSONAL NOTE: To get thoughts in the head onto the wall, don’t smack said head against the wall repeatedly. It does little for the creation process, but a lot to your consciousness.

Here is the wall:


The pages are hiding the blood stains.

This is a character profile, and on the right of this sprawl will go the chapter sequence and events timeline. I’ve decided to put all this right over my bed so I wake up and think “novel ideas”. I’m here all night for crap puns. It’s time to get organised like never before and this time… this time I mean it!

Yes! This method will yield results for sure. I won’t get distracted. I’m aware it doesn’t look much now, but just you wait, Mr and Mrs Reader, you shall – nay, you’ll HAVE NO CHOICE but to be impressed with what I’m cooking up here! Writing a novel take time – months in fact. Many months. I’d need to focus hard to ensure it get’s done in time and oh fudge I’ve joined a band and am now playing gigs. I’m very lucky in that aspect, but maybe this novel publication goal is going to take some time…

I’ll not harp about the band stuff here – that’s another project entirely, but it is exciting. Though, I do worry that this obvious procrastination is going to just kill off my publication dream… This will be interesting to find out, I’m sure. There are stories out there of writers learning the most cut-away and abstract hobbies just to avoid writing. They have no idea why of course, they just don’t want to do what they want to do, which is silly! I’ll never understand that.

The creative process is always an enigma, as I truly feel it’s not a needed part of life, so thus nature never really nurtured it into all the beings it has given rise to. I’m talking about true, reckless and passionate art – the kind that, like above, stops you in your tracks and inspires you.

Now, in the time I spent with the artist – who I shall now call from here-on-in The Woman – she raised a point of interest that I couldn’t answer right away as I was battling my own feelings like I inwardly do – but I’ve cracked it.

The Woman produced a picture drawn in a pad by a young chap she is involved with professionally. She then pointed to the picture I had taken inspiration from and was quite energetic in trying to discern the meaning behind each of the pictures. In the notepad, we had a picture of a woman, drawn by an unskilled hand, an immature and conflicted mind – basically a doodling made with no thought, and on the canvas, we had a skilled hand, a mature, focused mind – in essence, a work of art.
The Woman saw no distinction between the two, however – giving artistic merit to both pieces. She told me the nature of the doodling, and after hearing this, the source of the child’s drawing actually came from a deep place.
She had a valid point being that even though the child could not quite so express themselves in an as artistic form as she was able to, nevertheless, the energy behind the doodle was in equal measure to The Woman’s art.
It frustrated her that the meaning behind the doodle was in part as meaningful as her own work, but not recognised as such. And it confused me for some time as I felt an answer was there, but hadn’t formulated itself. So I left without answering – but now I have a simple one… All art is useless – that’s well known. But now I deem that completely void.

Art is energy. Pure energy, focused then into meaning. Therefore, when a piece of art is made, the emotional energy of the artist is embedded into it. When someone observes this art, the energy contained leaks out, and a meaning is then derived. Thus, meaning is meaningless – it is only the energy of the work that matters. And the thing about energy is that it doesn’t run out, it doesn’t fade or disappear – it just takes on new forms. And that is what inspiration is; the transfer of emotional energy from one piece to another. There is no meaning. It’s raw passion that has been handed down through eons of artistic creation. The Woman had already mentioned this as to why she painted – that sometimes she just had to, that it was like releasing, almost like sexual energy that overcomes and consumes you – but then I would hear that, wouldn’t I. Yet she was right on the dollar with that realisation.

Sorry for rambling, readers.

Maybe I should move to London…

See you next week/month, readers!

*Sloth. Why I wrote that I cannot say, as it makes little sense to send Sloths to war, let alone modify their genes for such purposes. Such brilliant and insightful thinking is probably exactly why I’m not published.

#8 – Never What You Expected. Never What You Planned. Never Say Never…

So… hello. Been a while, hasn’t it?

You may ask why. You may say, ‘so what.’ You’ll most certainly read on. One of you…

I’ve become some sort of nihilist to the writing world. Not that rejection has anything to do with it.
Oh no.
More a thing of self doubt. And it’s here, in this Blog, that I hope to find a way past this villainous psyche – one which has not thwarted me, but at least opened my mind to the possibility that I’m not a writer after all.

To call yourself a writer, you need to write. And write well.

In creating plots – I do well.
In forming character definition, impulse, desire and fate – I do well. Enough always to impress people with my ideas at least.
In imagining scenes and scenarios, technologies, sub plots and entire worlds, I like to think myself someone who can flesh out these things with a clarity wikipedian in scope. I do well.

Yet, in actually telling the story that my thoughts and dreams revolve around? That is entirely different, and each time I read something I’ve written, distaste, loathing and ultimately self-rejection cruelly stub out any passion I have for my own work.
Now, what’s that all about?

I’m not even being tough on myself. Nope, I’m being a realist, a rationalist, a critic – a patron of the arts almost, and even then, with as much objectivity as I can muster, I still feel my work is inaccessible to the imagination. I feel my work does not evoke the passions of a true writers spirit. Getting excited as I read is not something I’m able to induce in my work.
My work – in short – is an example of how not to do it.

About my current project? Well, I happily say I hate it, and only after months of working on it have I found out why.
I’ll share with you.

The work was a gift. When finished, it was to be printed on luxury paper, and presented it as a first copy before sending off another to many a publisher. I failed at that dismally for the same reasons I’m failing now: commitment.
Many of my thoughts about my current life streamed through me into that story, and when I read them back, certain sentences reverse engineer themselves into the memory of the thought that inspired them, way back then. Even by changing certain aspects of the story, the entire body of work rests on a single attempt of showing a devotion I wasn’t ultimately able to fulfil.

Because of that, I’ve shelved it. Stopped completely. I will no longer look at my life with that story in mind. As much crafting as possible had gone into it, yet it became work. Tedious, boring work that I grudgingly took on day after day for no particular reason other than to get it done.

Moving onto an entirely different project is my only option, and also a bitter blow.
You see, even writing something new is a direct relation to the time in my life where I utterly failed myself and others through my larrikin like ways. And yes, that’s an Australian word, larrakin. I like Australia at the moment.

Do you see how jumbled my mind is?

If I’m not a writer, then what am I? I thought musician once upon a time. Recently, I bought a Yamaha MX61, a neat little synthesizer that I can express myself differently on. And it’s the greatest toy I’ve bought for a long time. A very neat distraction.
I’ve had it for a few days now, and can honestly say I might not be so hesitant with writing now. My keyboard playing and writing seem to go hand in hand. When I couldn’t muster the energies to write, I’d find energy in creating random tunes, teaching myself various skills and what-not. Then, often, inspiration would find me again, and I’d be back to writing. It was a wonderful relationship. I have to renew it, hence the purchase.

You see, a long time ago, when I wanted to write, I was sat not far from where I currently am (which smacks of irony to me) and I was reading a book called Pandora’s Star by Peter F Hamilton.
I bought it from Waterstones, a UK bookshop, purely because it was a big block of paper that seemed more exciting than all the other blocks. I desperately needed some wild distraction from life back then – nearly seven years now, and I had it in written form.

Thank you, Peter. Thank you kindly.

I still want to write. Really, I do, and I still read Peter F. Hamilton. Especially now with Great North Road sitting in big, beautiful hardback next to my bed.
In some ways, I’ve regressed back to the state when I initially started this adventure. My plans to become a writer took me places, gave me some form of identity, something to be; to achieve!
I’ve achieved little, but met many fascinating people, and though no competitions have been won, I feel I’ve won the hearts and minds of my family and friends, which means a lot more. Or… does it?

Parts of me want success. Parts of me don’t. The parts that do say I deserve it after the weird life I initially started living upon birth. Parts of me that don’t want me to slink away from the previous me, the me I don’t want surfacing again.

Oh sod this. Really… so much introspection and not a hint of satisfaction. I bore and tire myself, and I’m sorry to have inflicted the world with my opinions. Sadly, I’m also masochistic enough to keep doing it. You will hear from me again. I’m not giving up. I’m just going back to the drawing board.

Kind Regards & 17 Kisses

#7 – Dealing With Rejection

Ah we’ve all had to deal with rejection one way or another, I’m sure.

Obviously when you’re given the thumbs down on a project, or that certain someone who caught your eye/heart didn’t throw theirs back (countless times I’ve dropped the ball on that one!) or even when your application for a job is turned down, rejection is a big sucky thing, but, using the words of Thomas Wayne of Batman:

“Why do we fall? So we can learn to pick ourselves up.”

Yes, both Asimovs Science Fiction and Interzone rejected my manuscript for Never A Dull Moment.

Sad face and all that…

This is good, though, as I’m now free to post it elsewhere. Didn’t take too long either. Asimovs was an electronic submission and they replied in about two weeks which I’m taking as them having to reread it plenty to make sure, rather than instantly dropping it in the bin. The latter, of course, is probably more accurate.

So what now? What other publishers can I send my work too?
Well, finding one is non too hard with the power of Google at your fingertips, but deciding on whether your work is for them or not is an annoying struggle. You then have to make sure that it fits within their guidelines, which publishers are very strict with!
Take this new house I was told about:

Gold Orchid Publishing.

If you send these guys some stuff and it’s not to their submission guidelines, they might even black list you!
And too damned right!
I’ve mentioned my reasons for keeping to guidelines and cannot stress enough how highly important it is for any author to pay strict attention to them.

I liken choosing a publisher to that wooden shape posting box I had as a child – something which still confuses me to this day.
My story is an irregular shape and the publishers box has all sorts of holes which my story appears it could fit into, but as I start to push, it gets snagged by one tiny little corner. If I dare to force it through, I’m bound to anger the box… And this is where the analogy starts getting all anthropomorphic so I’ll stop it and either rewrite it or leave it as it is…

Oh, yes, rewriting. Constant editing. Constant headache... Honestly, sometimes this story is like having a beautiful women in my arms – I just can’t stop caressing or tickling the cunning- Oh Christ-on-a-Segway I’m likening my writing to beautiful women.
How overly confident of me!
No, let’s not do this again. Let’s not get all filthy Goat Boy in this post…

Ah I digress.  Here’s what happened As I opened the letter from Interzone.
There was a moment of optimism, of joy and wonder. I distinctly remember bolstering myself for bad news, though. Mostly because the weight of the envelope indicated my story was inside. At that moment, I knew it was rejected. If they wanted it, they would’ve just sent a mere note with ‘Yes please’ written on it. As I took the still clean pages out, I remember the indignation I felt for myself assuming my first shot would hit target. How foolish I can be.
The covering note from Interzone was pleasant to read. It surmounted to telling me not to give up, that a form rejection isn’t always a bad thing; it just means they have other stuff on. They say to keep trying them with new stuff and good luck. And also a payment form for a subscription.

Wouldn’t it be so very cool if they gave a brief critique as well? We writers can dream!

Oh, and as for critiques, I’m waiting for Groupon to post a deal. They’re so damned expensive! Like a marriage in ways. You pay a massive upfront fee only to be told later either good news or terrible you-should-really-divorce-writing news… I’m not so keen to test the waters on that one yet.

Let’s not settle on my failures. Instead, I’ll briefly deal with the issues raised last post where I mentioned a certain Facebook challenge.

Writing for the word challenge where I was offered Wendover, Innuendo, Psychotic, and Spontaneous has been done – sort of. I’ve got my lovely little plot about some mental patient who requires 24/7 care and this care is privately paid for by the patients parents. A new care worker joins the small team and is soon the target of the patients somewhat uncouth requirements. Thus we have a problem for our new care worker as they slowly get embroiled in a fantastically hideous affair I’m most proud of.
When I’ve finished completely, I’ll post here as a teaser. The best thing being that since it was a mere Facebook challenge posted randomly like any other status – no one will be pushing me for their story. Who’s really going to remember? No one, that’s who, rendering me free of the embarrassment of not completing it on time. Frankly I’ll be utterly amazed if anyone did mention it. What would I do if given an actual deadline!

One day we’ll find out.
Sadly, that’s about it for me on this post, and I’m sure you’ve noticed the bi-weekly update schedule by now instead of the weekly. That’s not because I’ve been lazy.

It’s because I’ve been dancing and kissing very, very pretty girls.

Kind Regards And Seventeen Kisses.

Iron People Needed

If you know wander around WordPress often, you might have opened the door to…

IMM: The Blog is a site run by an enterprising individual hinged to the hip to a charity called Child’s Play.

His site is a dedicated gaming website where the rules are slightly different.

They don’t ask for donations to their pocket, but for the children in hospitals around the world who need that special gift of playtime.

Child’s Play is a charity that supplies kids with terminal conditions toys, games and entertainment to lighten the unfair burden of their lives.

I’m sure you can envisage the need to do this – to make the moments more bearable.
Not only do children get to enjoy themselves, but then hospital wards are equipped so fathers and mothers are better able to enjoy playtime with their child when visiting, and an uncountable other scenarios that play opens up.
Nothing can be more tender than that so any drive to fulfil this moment is deserving of anyone’s attention.

You can enjoy the delightful writing here:

Iron Man Mode: The Blog

Donating is made easy with use of a widget that ensures the money goes straight to Child’s Play.

Here is their website:

Child’s Play

Take note that they also accept gift donations of actual toys and games and entertainment via means of a wishlist, so any items you may have hanging around can be sent to your nearest hospital should they have a list. And hey, if your nearest doesn’t, then maybe you could inform them of this wonderful charity yourselves! Bonus.

There is some of my writing there, and I’m titled as a Fallen Gamer, but that matters not – what matters is getting these kids to smile and play and enjoy themselves! I myself have donated and will continue to do so!

My personal favourite game is the Final Fantasy VII Blog, which just so happens to be the longest running – and the funniest!

Also, if you’re up for it, perhaps you could mail the site manager and demand he let me back in 😛 but don’t let him know I said that ha ha!

Have fun reading!


#6 – Where Ben Calls, And I Answer

Hello readers.

Though a more accurate and personal greeting is obliged… Hello Ben, how are you?

Yes, this here is an update that my one and only reader so woefully reminded me had been less than satisfying in its regularity.
He’s currently trying to sue me for Breach of Contract – a contract he slyly had me sign with clever use of carbon paper.
He’s a git, I tell you – but a correct git, which makes his gittery even more unbearable.
In fact, he’s likely to be so gittish as to print this blog out, present it to me with highlighted mistakes, and then laugh and laugh and laugh and keep on laughing until he gets second-laughing-wind and laughs some more. At which point he then plays the recording of the laugh, thus truly giving him the last laugh. To borrow some most excellently placed words – He’s Mr Punchline. He’ll outlive God trying to have the last word.

I think I’ll start calling him Ben Nevis because he makes me feel very small very often.

But I have been slacking with the Blog. So on with it.

It’s funny. I always thought writing a Blog would be easy to keep up-to-date with, since it barely takes any time to whip out, and it serves a great purpose when it comes to creating an organised and disciplined writing structure that fits into my life.

So imagine my surprise when I find myself with a healed shoulder. The same shoulder which hindered my fitness levels, made me all sullen and depressed as I couldn’t go riding, and generally was the sole cause of a stampede of creation.
I said to myself, ‘balls to this writing lark – I’m going to crush the cross-country, burn the berms and blitz the bomb-holes.’
And that’s what I was doing instead of blogging.

Not to say that writing has taken a pillion. Not at all. Just this Blog.

When it comes to writing, my ten followers will be pleased to know that a finished story is doing the rounds, albeit very slowly.

The story is called Never A Dull Moment and you can read a tiny, teeny excerpt at the end of this Blog.

The other story I’m working on, codenamed Eat Carbon, Crap Diamonds, Get Rich is currently residing in the Planning folder on my PC.
This story is still going to be my first crack at a novel, and I have sights set on a few publishers with whom to send it to already.

But, back to Never A Dull Moment.

What is this story, you wonder? For anyone with the same memory problems as me, I’ll give a quick, no punctuation re-cap.

Deep breathe…

A woman in love with a man dearly and forever is taken aback when he suddenly decides to go on an elaborate adventure to some secret destination with her in tow and when they get there she thinks the world is the happiest place ever but as the trip unfolds the real reason for it becomes not apparent to her but damned scary and all she has worked for in life and and all he has worked for in life is crushed in an instant and there is only one victor and its an entirely unexpected one at that.

So, with that being written, I’ll now write about what it is like sending to publishers.

No fun.

Now let’s talk some more about sex.

No, let’s not. you saw what happened last time and this just isn’t the place. Clearly, Damien, you are trying to validate having sex in your blog so it can legitimately use the word as a tag, thus gaining more attention. It’s really quite pathetic.

Okay, reasoning, you win on that round. No sex.

Only an excerpt. But soon.

Publishers really are fickle things, and for good reason. I can’t imagine the slew of stories that come their way from all the wannabe Stephanie Meyers and J K Rowlings. So I implore, if you want the kind of attention you intend to live off, then pay attention to the submission guidelines. Not doing so just get’s the manuscript thrown away.

They also take a massive amount of time to please.
Most publishers don’t seem to enjoy simultaneous submissions. Just imagine if the story lands on two mats, both publishers enjoy the story, and both get in touch. The idiocy of having to make them barter is ludicrous and all too common, and I for one applaud the measure – decent content is worth fighting over, but not at the cost of lauding the author beyond his ego. It’s unprofessional and disrespectful for the industry as a whole. It creates problems both for licences and legal – such is the literary world, and I for one will not be so sly as to go against those particular grains.

Because of that, it takes time finding a publisher. Time spent editing to their guidelines,  in sending off and waiting for the reply.

One way I found of making it quicker is to just accept the story will be rejected, and get to work making it worthy for the next publisher. Most like it the same way, but subtle changes are often required.

I’m currently waiting on Asimovs to get in touch after using their online submission. Yet I have already received a form rejection from Interzone. I’m working my way down a large list, with the biggest targets at the top. I’m not sure if that’s a good strategy, considering where my level of writing is at…

Any who, that’s my problem. Here’s the tiny excerpt. Don’t be angry with it – I’m just covering myself in case a publishers actually wants to go ahead and buy it. If they did, I might have to remove it. I don’t know.

Enjoy. Hopefully…

The night sky above Aylesbury, forever saturated by light-pollution lacklustre and suffocating had robbed the town of the beauty above for decades. Yet, as the entire town and surrounding villages unexpectedly lost power, the pervasive haze vanished, leaving silver moon-kissed clouds as the only illumination to cast down on the peaceful, enchanted residents.

Some of the clouds would part briefly, revealing a glimpse of the rich universe; diamonds set in obsidian. For Ruby Hart and so many others, it was like a magician had ordered the stage lights off, commencing a grand and epic illusion enrapturing and fearsome, rewarding and punishing.

As the clouds parted directly above her, Ruby certainly felt a sleight of hand contrived to lure her somewhere mysterious. Feelings started to stir delicately.

Insignificance overwhelmed Ruby, making her feel completely irrelevant to the shrouded scheme of the universe.

And that’s it. All you’re getting. I’m protective over it for some reason – which is an odd sensation. I can’t pin it down exactly just yet, as it feels churlish and immature, so I’ll work on that, but… well, I feel it could do with some moulding, and for that reason, I wonder if anyone would care to comment below about it. I’m opening up to discussion, though appreciate this may not be the forum for it.

As for other projects, a Facebook challenge has got me completely blitzed with work overload.
I asked for people to give me three words, and a location, with which I would build a story I intend on selling.
Those words were:

1. Morgue. Bassoon. Tampon. Pterodactyl.
2. Wendover. Innuendo. Psychotic. Spontaneous.
3. Rio de Janeiro. Men. Quietly. Scream
4. Sharm El Sheikh . Truth. Anxiety. Rebellious.

All interesting, challenging and taking a good portion of my time – which is good as being kept busy is a life must for me right now! Really!

And that’s in addition to my main project, you know, the Uallus Duff one, AS WELL AS…. The Communion Novel. Yes, another project novel set in the same universe of Never A Dull Moment. I can’t wait to tell you more!

and at that, I’m off. Hopefully this coming Sunday I shall return with more news – hopefully good from the likes of Asimov, but who knows.

Take care, and a special thank you to Ben.

Kind Regards and Seventeen Kisses
(also a title to another short story I forgot to mention)

Quick Mobile Update

Riding a bike is very fun. Certainly in my top ten things to do with life. You see, I very much enjoy Mountain Biking, and about two months ago I sadly came off in a spectacular crash. My shoulder, though not broken, ached like needles amd hot irons being pressed into it.
Obviously, for the last two weeks I’ve been over enjoying my recovery by putting myself into danger at various woodlands in the South if England, and writing has been put off as I get to a state of fitness I’m happy with.
Sorry about that. Normal service this Sunday. No delays unless I break my arm.


#5 – This isn’t easy… (with some pictures because of the lack of words)

I’m not sure about any other writer, but when I decided to try my hand at writing, I thought it would be easy.

The truth is, that writing is perhaps the hardest thing a human can undertake if they mean to do it for the rest of their life. And I mean to.

The past week has been a struggle.
On actually sitting down to write, I was distracted by various small things – classically procrastinating from the task like it was a chore. Surely that can’t be right? In fact, this blog will surmount the total of my completed work this week. This, and a 1200 word appraisal for my day job, but that hardly counts, does it?

So, what did I actually do this week? Well, that short story I mentioned, that was edited and edited and edited, and I’m still editing.


Additionally, I undertook several writing challenges on the Facebook thing again. Though this time I fear I’ve taken on too much, and – gasp – will fail!

Gosh this is all bleak stuff… I feel like I’m failing at being the writer I want to be. No one is pressuring me to write stuff , only myself, so it’s not as if I’m shackled like a copy producer, or restricted like a journalist. I have no remit, no responsibility, no actual writing job to perform, so why the dismal output… Especially considering last week. Very strange.

Oh, and I haven’t touched up on the story I started out with. This is not encouraging at all! What would it mean to you if I said that even the title to this blog evaded me for a whole hour…

I think someone’s distracted…

It’s no mystery that writers get blocked up, and that they eventually overcome them, but this is ridiculous to the extreme. I have nothing to blame, either – no major impact has been registered on the radar of my life – it’s all gone rather quiet.

You’re not a writer…

I often get the feeling there’s a little tiny Damien in my head belittling me, making me fail for that little tiny Damien just wants to lounge around and get fat, watching films and TV and generally not doing a great deal with its life.

You’re right there…

So, from here on in, I’m going to converse with myself, and try to reason with it.

You’ll find me wholly unreasonable…

Now why is that? Why are you even here?

Sometimes I watch dinosaur programs just to stop you writing.

Well aren’t you just something amazing. How about working with me, so both of us can have a happy, productive and well-lived future?

The both of us?

Yeah, me and you, on the Road To Triumph, getting out there and being the best we can be.

Oh, you fail to understand. It’s not just me. There are loads of us… Stop writing, and go watch that science thing you want to.

Go and have a bike ride. You’re getting fat

Nice looking hills in Scotland. Go there. Look at this website.

Look at THIS website instead…

You have Facebook notifications…

Isn’t it time to stop now? You’ve done plenty. That title couldn’t be better. Stop. Rest. You’ve earned it. Five words would kill anyone…

Do you really need to write, or would you rather listen to the new Korg X50 sample. Go on, let’s have peek.

Trying to be avant-garde, are we? Nice try. More like a haven’t-a-hope. Quit. Quit now! Stop this futile attempt at trying to mould your “character”, you useless sack of shit. You talentless dreamer. You know what, Damien, this is your problem. You dream of being the best kitchen in the world, able to cook anything, of having parties and life and rich times – but the truth is, you’re nothing but a dried up used tea bag on the mould-ridden worktop of a grimy shit-hoarding geriatric loners council flat. Who has just died. That’s the affect you have on this earth, you inconsequential squirt of spunk. You should have been swallowed – that would have been a better use of the paltry amount of energy you can muster. You don’t even know when to use affect for effect. Idiot.

I hate you. I hate you so much.

Good. You should hate yourself. Best thing you can achieve with your life.

(at this point, I took a phone call, feeling sorry for myself, and then re-read what I just wrote…)

I hate you, little tiny Damien. Or Damiun, if there are loads of you. I’ll take you ALL on. The tiny voices in my head are just that. Tiny, little voices. YOU’RE THE INCONSEQUENTIAL. YOU’RE THE USELESS. you’re nothing but little Daminions. I’m Damien fucking Sanderson, I’m a writer. I write, therefore I WRITE! And there’s not a damned thing you can do. And your teabag analogy? Utterly useless. Because even that tea bag served it’s purpose to the whole. It did what it had to, and left it’s legacy the best way it could have.

Keep telling yourself that. Go on, perk yourself up. I’ll be waiting down here. We both know how often you’re here…

Oh I tire of you. I really do. Have this: I’m a fucking star. A big, bold, outshining everything in the galaxy star, and you, you and your co-conspirators are the tiny little rocks which spin around me. I’m you’re gravity. You are bound to me, and I control  YOUR fate. And guess what, you’re right, I’ll blow up. One day, after my purpose is served, I’ll go bang, and my life is over… but you know what, I’ll remain, because even after my final outburst, after my final super nova of creation, I’ll remain creating, I’ll keep on evolving, becoming a new star, a new lease of life whilst you will have been wiped out, torn apart, eradicated in an instant. The things that make you will become a part of me and they’ll only be even tinier, even less of a problem. You’re NOTHING. NOTHING. Just remember, little tiny Damien, that without me, you’re NOTHING!

… I’m… shocked. A little shocked. I have no immediate comeback.

Of course you don’t. I’ve defeated you. And I’m angry. Real angry. I’ll never be rid of you. Ever. I know that, so don’t even pretend to yourself I’m in denial. I just have ways of slaying you down like you did me. My writing will get me somewhere. And I’ll eventually thank you. Ha, you humble me, tiny little Damien. Yes, YOU! you make me me, and without you, I’m nothing. Oh, go on, please – put me down some more. Go on. DO IT!

Later… Much much later. When you least expect it. When you think you’re on top. Oh, and you’re useless with girls. Hahaha. Fuck you.

You’re pathetic. Truly…

I think it’s best to stop talking to myself now. Sure, you read this, this little dialogue, and as a reader, you mat well understand that even as I type these words, that little tiny Damien is peeking at every action I do, criticizing and deploring all I do. But you know what, reader? A writer must use and ignore this aspect of themselves. They must hone their craft, and not let their demons rule them. Rule the demons, I say. Let them be a source of inspiration!

Okay, an experiment. Booze has an effect on my writing. It has an effect on everyone’s everything. I wonder what will happen if I stick to one of these for a month… Can you choose for me?


See you next week. Will have gotten more done, then.

The Bee Politic

Another Facebook Writing Challenge. The two words given here were Killer & Bee.

The Bee Politic

Bee #120941 responded to the pheromone shift instantly. A quick adjustment in the wing alignment, and its course was set straight towards the source. linear in direction, the route was deliberately laced with sporadic bursts of misdirection, darting through, around and over obstacles, as if trying to confuse the enemy.
The pheromone shift changed flavour.
Other bees were responding. The hive had been truly awaken.
‘120941 checking in. Please give mission parameters.’
‘We have you five daffodils out, 120941. Arm sting, aim for head. Target is human, armed and dangerous. Caution advised. Fire at will.’
The bees tail stinger unsheathed, ready to be injected with precision into the humans flesh.
Bee #120941 rose above a hyacinth, then, like a scimitar, honed in on the humans head. Over a hundred other bees had responded to the call, and now their attack was at its deadliest.
Bee #120941 nearly collided with Bee #55634, and was scolded harshly. Bee #120941 would know about that later.
‘All units, all units, be advised of other human activity. Presumed rescue mission. Watch for smoke and fire. Kill all targets.’
Bee #120941 had nearly made it to the humans face, aiming just above its giant mouth, hoping to land inside to score a critical hit.
Yet the humans hands, flailing wildly, caught Bee #120941, and before it knew what happened, the floor was pressing into its flesh, wings first, crumpling them enough to make flight impossible.
Bee #120941 wasn’t done, yet.
‘Bee in distress, bee in distress. Wing damage taken. Proceeding on tarsus.’
The determined bee jostled towards the humans incredibly large foot, aiming to hitch a ride.
As the other humans came closer with a smoke screen, blankets and other protective aids, the remaining flying task force broke off attack.
They had already inflicted massive damage to the human, enough so that it had to be laid on the floor.
This was Bee #120941’s chance. It crept up a lock of hair, then under so to avoid detection. As it crawled up, slowly, with less energy now, it met a flea.
‘Get him good. He killed my entire family.’
‘I will, don’t worry.’
The fleshy scalp was soon visible as the bee crept onwards, and upon reaching it, turned it’s abdomen, and impaled the skin as deeply as it could, driving lethal toxins into the surrounding nerve clusters, shutting them down.
At that moment, where bee and human were connected in battle, the bee could feel the beat of the humans enormous heart start to slow. In an instinctual instant, the bee knew their opponent was felled, and the hive would continue on to greater strength.
Bee #120941 checked in. ‘Sting deployed, target failing. Mission success. Can’t make base. Please send rescue mission.’
But there was no reply.