Did you know writing can be a real addiction?

Wednesday 10.00am

My…. acquaintances… shall we say… for I no longer have friends, per se… can call me obsessive compulsive.  I’m not.  Just dedicated.  Usually finish what I started.   That’s supposed to be a good thing.  Right?  Granted they do try to counteract what is really intended as an insult by adding ‘…but in a good way.’  However, as I look around me, at my life, how it’s turning out since I started my writing journey about seven years ago, I think they might be spot on; I’ve let everything else slip… and not least of which, my physical self.  This is an addiction, no joke about it anymore like I used to say; I'm being entirely serious; the effects as potentially damaging as many other, frowned upon, addictions.

If I have a resolution - which I don’t normally make simply because it’s a new year - for 2013, it’s that I have to balance my love of writing with what pays the bills, what inspires me… what keeps the weight of my erstwhile slim waistline – which is kind of funny because I don’t really eat, never have… but the old metabolism, that used to beat any amount of calories into submission singlehandedly, has started to turn traitor.

I've been 'binge-writing' recently, been obsessed, had one of those bouts that last a few weeks where everything else goes to hell and time has no meaning.  The result... even though I have an ergonomic chair and desk, all the poise in the world, what feels like some kind of a hip displacement!  That's new!  I've found that kind of writing really is detrimental to my health: headaches, eye strain, tennis elbow, stiff joints, nodules in my right arm where it leans on the desk, weight gain (yes, despite the fact I don't eat) hair loss, baggy skin...  sore ribs... or somethin'... I could go on.  But that's all going to change; yes, this year I'm getting back into jogging and other stuff that will balance what should be my real life with my writing one much more fairly, much more healthily.

Today I have to do my taxes – an infinitely hated task that despite the relative simplicity of when I do get around to them, are seven months overdue - as reminded by Revenue Canada last week - a letter I’ve long since expected - insisting I file a return – and which I’ve resolved to do right now, today, but in my obsessive compulsiveness, well-versed in the art of procrastination with everything else these days other than writing - and especially when it comes to facts and figures - I’ve found myself compiling this article instead.  Yes, indeed, a true addict.

But I will do them; I don’t want to get up in the morning anymore and dread having to, because that’s the first thing that pops into my mind, and I am, believe it or not, a responsible citizen… or at least I used to be... when I was part of society.

My taxes are filed in plastic bags, the odd liquor store and Safeway ones, garbage bags, even - perhaps the writer in me; a metaphor for what I really think of taxes - and, in ink, the year scribbled less than eloquently on the outside before being tossed into a little office in my workplace that I don’t use except to hide things I don’t want to see.  If I’m ever audited, that’s what they’ll get; garbage bags and less than well-kept records that are, actually, probably to my detriment.  Yes, I am a CRAP businessman.  Hate that side of anything, even in writing… hate promoting myself, my books, hate having to do the marketing… all of that stuff.   But there comes a time you have to bite the bullet.  Today’s that day, and for all my love of sitting and writing, still trying to procrastinate even now, I'm glad I'm the kind of person that can kick myself up the arse before it's too late.

However, it’s struck me, if I were to put as much effort into my real life, my real relationships, my real business, as I do with writing, I’d probably be a highly successful, popular guy - at least in that weird way people used to be enamoured... or somethin'... by me.  I’d be slimmer, able to wear the fitted designer shirts in 'medium' from Italy that've been abandoned to the darkest recesses of my closets, the pair of jeans I've never worn, all of which, in lucid, occasional moments in the real world, have become but a pipe dream; remnants of a surreal memory of a more dynamic me that would go out of my way to do photobombs.  Not anymore; swiping away anyone's camera like Naomi Campbell to the paparazzi as soon as they come anywhere near me.

But that’s all going to change.  Yes, cha-nge, I tells ya.   I’m going to start eating again too, proper food.  Maybe I’ll lose some weight; 20Ibs and climbing over what I should be; shocked to see too (as someone who didn’t lose or put on a single pound my entire life regardless of my habits) that even a ‘large’ won't tell the lie effectively.  And yes, it may not be much, but I watch The Biggest Loser, that’s how they all start.

And so I feel I have been a bit obsessive, and, no; not in a good way at all - save your political correctness for social media - I see what writing is doing to me, how it's affecting me, snared me, literally, into its den, how my puppy looks at me, to say ‘oh, please, not again for fuck sake’ when I sit at my desk.  Don’t get me wrong; I know what’s important; he gets his exercise, and plenty of it, lovin’ too, but going to the park is becoming more of a chore than quality time for me, if I’m being honest, and even then, my mind teeming with clever anecdotes that makes me wish I'd brought a pen.  But that is the one thing that does make me sit and think about how much time I am spending writing, perhaps the catalyst that makes me come to this realization; for not only do I need to focus more on my lovely little dog, but on me, my old friends, my health, my business – which perhaps is in danger of being run so far into the ground that there’s an entrance into it from Australia, because I'm simply neglecting it in some ways.  After all, it is life, people, and the very art of living that inspire my stories; staying indoors writing for years on end, even as a highly imaginative person, is like never maintaining your car (which I also let go for two years until recently, used to do that every winter and every summer).  No, your mind needs ‘lubed’ as well, and perhaps parts of you too (get yours out the gutter) I mean like... aromatherapy... or somethin'... whatever, total relaxation, anyway.  A mental vacation.

I think I’ve come far enough in this never ending writing journey, for it will be never-ending, apparently, that I can afford to calm it a bit now, stop obsessing, take time out every now and then, because I think I’ve become quite good at it, yes; I should really focus on doing that – however ‘taxing’ it might be.

Wednesday 5pm

So, in the process of going through every drawer, every bag, every room at both work and home, I not only got my 2011 taxes organised, but my 2012 ones too - six months earlier than I need to, which should make up for the six months I’m late with the 2011 return, don't ya think?  But I did have a moment of panic, starting to absolutely freak out when I saw the piles of receipts and invoices before me, but then, with my newfound attitude, nothing else to do, methodically went through it all, and surprisingly, rather enjoyed it.  I’ll file the return electronically tomorrow, for I most definitely have had enough now.  However, in the process, I found two un-cashed cheques, one from my 2010 taxes from the government for $179,26, which thankfully I can still cash over a year later, and one for just under $30.00 from another company which is only a few months old.  And if that wasn’t surprising enough, two of a number of old lottery tickets bringing me another $40.00 when I checked them - so I'm richer by $250.00 just by getting myself organized... the universe rewarding me for making the effort to come out of the dark shadows of my writer's mindset?  Don't be ridiculous; merely coincidental, shows just what a CRAP businessman I am.

Now I’m off to have pizza and beer and watch the premiere of American Idol - the diet and exercise will begin after the taxes are filed; too much all at one time.  Yes, too much, I deserve a bloody break.

Here is an article on the very serious matter of writing addiction.

What makes me wanna write?

I was invited to be interviewed about being a writer (to be publicized soon) and was asked a number of questions, one of them about what inspires/motivates me to write, and when I got into it, I realized I'd gone on a bit and my answer to that one question, in its entirety, couldn't possibly be used owing to it's length - 1454 words, and so I'm depositing it here instead to add to my other posts about my writing journey - and perhaps as an appendix, should anyone reading the actual interview be a glutton for punishment - and also because I've been very busy lately, and haven't done a post in a while.  Enjoy.

***

First and foremost I write for myself, and I’m being quite serious when I say I quantum leap into the (fabricated) worlds I create when I do.

‘Whaaa…?’

You heard.

But easy to do when you know how; understand our planet’s indentation upon the fabric of space and therefore the gravitational pull of the various dimensions ensnared by it that enables a creative mind to traverse with a hop, skip and a… well… quantum leap… into the elementary; the ability to connect everything in the universe between A and B let alone all the way to Z making for interesting inventions indeed.  How could they not be told?

“Is this guy for real?”

I’m afraid so, but only in the literal sense, otherwise I’m largely considered a weirdo anomaly, so much so that when I enter a room I cause it to become lopsided.  But I like to think of myself as a wonderful eccentric, even though I’m not; better than my artistic sensibility becoming mistranslated.  But that’s what a black hole where the unknown dwells in infinite state will do for a writer such as me; one who strives to try and be unique; shock a little here and there; simply futile to even try and resist the gravitational pull because somewhere therein, for such a person as I, lies home, and everyone needs a place to relax?  Right?

“Huh?’

Please keep up.  In other words, the need to express the gift of an unusual imagination in storytelling is inherent; affords an escapism that can’t, at least for me, be found on our four-dimensional plane.  Such a mind is so fully integrated in alternate existence that the impossible is the only place where a lone-wolf might feel they belong – and wolves can do that these days, can’t they; space travel?  Or at least, werewolves do - even though I’ve never seen any of those particular creatures when I’m flying around up there - but an irresistible pastime; writing; the den of the universe calling me to mine its abyss of ingenuity, where, what hopefully emerges on paper upon my return, is new life, new worlds and a story that no man has written before.  Enterprising indeed.  Yes, I like to think of myself as Ashtar, spreading stardust wherever I go.

Who?

Oh… nobody; just some alien from the 50s, I'm sorry if you expected Picard.

But trekking through the stars and cheap metaphors about a popular TV franchise and an entity that people channel on New Years Eve aside, I’m an introvert, a true lone wolf, a little bit strange, and writing allows my soul to bare its teeth fully in a way that’s just not acceptable in person – but then that might be my propensity for dressing up as Mediaeval French royalty, I don’t know.  But as a fairly complex person, apparently, I couldn’t possibly go into the ins and outs of who I am fully here, but I did write a very heartfelt piece about what makes me me, entitled ‘Precipice of an Alternate Plane’, a few months ago, that attempts to explain away the strangeness of me as well as anything ever could I guess; inspired to write something from my heart by the late Nora Ephron’s piece on death, which really touched me in that how honest it was.   But it’s a piece, if you were to look closely enough, that might explain just how I, and no doubt, many other inspired anomalies, see the world differently from most; literally not taken in by it, not feeling embraced, possessing a kind of x-ray vision, allowing us to see it being played out very differently, insisting on keeping us at arm’s length despite our best efforts of, as the song goes, putting the right one in in the first place, followed by an awkward left leg; everything, seemingly basic at every turn, with alternate essence, simply begging to be reinvented by the art of storytelling.

“Oh… I see…,”said the blind man.

No you don't.  But anyhoo, we simply can’t help it; and even though it can often be to our detriment; becoming even more ostracised; obsessed to the point where we allow it to affect our health and listen to its insistence that we forego other perhaps more financially promising careers, an artist does what an artist does because it’s truly a calling – unlike the cameo character, Sister Betty in Prickly Scots, who, for the want of anything else to do, only became a nun after her husband left her penniless and nowhere else to go, but still she manages to find a way to buy cigarettes, crafty bitch.

But there’s an honesty that we can get away with in fiction that’s perhaps by-the-wayside in real life; society, and very much so in art, inclined to be automaton, and so recreating it somewhat satiates my need for humour, which even my more literary works are filled with, and a perfect way to not get into trouble with my ‘say it as is’, ‘no nonsense’ attitude that I’ve needed to learn to curtail somewhat.  The small hope is that, should they become successful enough, they might influence others into thinking along new lines.  In writing, people tend to find rudeness amusing, a tad outrageous, admirable even, and that's great, I think that we should laugh at ourselves more; our current climate far too politically correct sometimes.

In fact, total honesty is a prerequisite for every aspect of my life, sometimes to my detriment; a tad obsessive compulsive about it, I know; intolerant of anything that doesn’t ring true, even in fiction, for I cannot read, and certainly not write that if I can’t see it being played out authentically in my mind’s eye despite the fabricated nature of it.

I think my approach affords my characters an interesting angle though, regardless of whether they’re aliens or monsters, a nasty old lady or a precocious child, whatever, nothing and nobody as perfect as a lot of writers seem to want to make their worlds and their protagonists because, in general, that’s how its always been.  And so I feel, with my sometimes completely annoying ability for omniscience, ‘seeing’ people the way I do, that this translates into believable eccentrics that the reader can, on some level, identify with better while still maintaining a degree of awe for fictional characters, and it also affords abundant opportunity for me to develop them in a way perhaps readers might secretly relate to outside of our largely sugar-coated world.

“Did he just digress to the point where I have no idea what he’s talking about anymore?”  Probably, I do that; makes you read pieces like this more than once; get over it. ”But most people might just say they write because they love to, for fuc…  I mean… Heaven’s sake.”

Yes well, I’m not most people; please pay attention… and there’s absolutely no need for expletives or blasphemy… thank you very much.

But I guess my point is, I see inspiration everywhere, and I mean absolutely everywhere; cursed, it feels like sometimes, but it all builds up into what I call ‘FBI’ profiles for my characters/stories, and so I hope that those who dip their toes into the extra-terrestrial tides of the oceans I swim, that it will ultimately entertain them too.

“Whaaa…?”

Yeah, you heard, get over it; I’m a writer; I’m allowed to get like, all fancy… and shit.

Hardly mainstream though, and I won’t compromise, but that’s another matter; whether people like my writing or not, is, quite frankly, largely irrelevant to me; and even though I’d really like them to, again first and foremost I do write for me, myself and I.  It is always a pleasure though, when I see readers gain some unexpected delight from my unusual style, and I really appreciate that.  Discerning types, obviously.

I believe writers are therapists, psychologists and comedians, gatekeepers to Escapasia, inventors (obviously, ‘cos I just made that last word up lest you couldn’t tell) books, simply portals to other dimensions where anything is possible.  They’re educators, motivators and inspirers.  Who knows what a good story teller arouses in others, what dreams they elicit, the wings of imagination that they set in flight.

“Okay, puke... enough already; I get it.”

Yeah… I agree.

But what really motivated me in the first instance, was the worlds I became lost in in my childhood; reading every Enid Blyton book I could lay my hands on; a writer that transported me into her exciting worlds in the same way, I guess, that JK did for a whole new generation.  And despite writing first and foremost because I love to do it, I would also love to think that someone, somewhere, got the same experience as that from something I’ve written.

“Aww… I actually understood that bit.“

Uh huh.

My writing journey over the Alps

As I wandered through those Alps; arduous, never-ending, I encountered many an obstacle along the journey; reached icy plateaus demanding I go back the way I came, to re-tread paths that I thought I'd conquered, and becoming stuck there, sometimes, exhausted, to simply hibernate in a cave, a lone wolf, naïve, hungry, no oasis to quench my thirst.

And I wonder why, for sometimes I'd thought it was pointless, sometimes still, as well.  And besides, there was a road that I could've driven, as others do, a more direct route, smooth and simple, undemanding, crossing boundaries with ease, apparently, and all that should be an obstacle.

But what would I know of the mountain at all, the intimacy of its spiritual essence, its disposition, for those would've eluded my grasp, the magnitude of pride and honour that commands to be scaled?  But my passion intrinsic, my sensibilities committed to the nature of the beast within, like no other I know.  I'd soar that mountainous terrain, sprout wings, learn how to fly, yes, and pass that old road by.

And when I did start out on that venture, blind at first, nocturnal, skulking in the dark of night, eyes eager, flashing; green, then red, so green, and then so red, a young wolf, arrogant, treading ahead without observing the lay of the land, those very rules dictated by the head of the pack from which I chose to stray to charter new territory with maverick way, and where sense was the only thing to be found on sheer cliff faces that scoffed and told me to turn around.

And I did, discovered trails to at least pinnacles low, and clambered upon them, scrambled, my body, exhausted, starved, depleted, resting there till dawn when I could survey my domain, all that I would claim to know.  But when daylight broke, my imaginary reward; that vista, hazy, still, an early morning mist lingering on a precipice, a gaping mouth to swallow me whole, still, daring me to find a foothold to climb to the limit of the sky where an abyss of imagination waited to be soared, or to plummet me to a bottomless pit of no substance.

And catching sight of higher peaks off in the distance, my name whistling between them, I reached a treacherous terrain of which I knew better now, jagged, unwelcoming, infinite, detrimental to body and mind, but inviting all the same, challenging, goading me all the while, in that I did not have strength, dared me to continue that quest at my will, at my peril, threatened that it'd eaten stronger than I.  Yes, easy to hitch a lift, that road right there, beckoning.  But what of respect; of staking my flag?  No, that road has no end, no honour, no destination where I would go.

Forward, the only way, the hard way, and as it should be, lest I lay down and died, lest I relinquished all that I could prove myself to be.   And so I ate but a berry or two along the way, to sustain the body that feeds my mind, as I dragged it across a rocky terrain of high and low, my latent madness to accompany me, hearing it whisper all the while, encouraging, but mocking me all at once, confusing me, as I inched forward, for I could only inch, to reach out and grab that, which came into my sight.

Yes, I summoned that strength instilled in me from another terrain, another madness never mine to claim, but of which I suffered, conquered against the odds to return me strong, that brought me to my battle here today, where, at last, I may reach, on hands and knees, dizzying heights of a pinnacle of which I may breathe thin air to leave me breathless, for through my blindness, the very pain of my vision, I see vistas, laid out before me in pastures bright, and a mossy hill to roll down upon that will stop me at the feet of a couple of Sherpa's waiting at the foot of the Himalayas.  But I don't need them now.  Do I?

"Fuck off Sherpas," I said.

**Important Note**

The above post started out as a blog post about my writer's journey, it was only meant to notify my readers that an end of an era is here; in that I have actually been able to put the words, 'Final Edition' on my Prickly Scots titles.   Many will know that I have written many other stories since, but Prickly Scots has seen me through the years of my training, was the first book I wrote as an adult, initially, without any kind of training, and has been rewritten and rewritten time and again the more my skill evolved with the necessary training and by gaining experience as a writer - my Golden Gate Bridge, if you like.

However, over the last few weeks, the entire book got yet another overhaul, each chapter lovingly edited three times each, to try and implement something of the writer I am today - a very hard task when you have to deal with all the errors and rookie mistakes of your previously amateur self; I could've written a whole new book in this last month.  And I found while doing it this time, that I knew it would be the last, I didn't actually need, or want to change it much at all - a first.  That of course, as easy as the edit was this time, brought me to a realisation, of how far I've come these last seven years; from the early days of joining an amateur writing site, where I started to understand more of the formulaic aspects, onto becoming top writer there, to the writer I am today, who has garnered the attention of some pretty important people, including, recently, a highly respected international best selling author who sent me a lovely message based on something else I wrote, and told me that she had purchased one of my books.  Humph.  Now, if that doesn't mean that I've scaled a mountain or two, then I don't know what would.  I can only hope that it might hold up to her expectation.

Again, Prickly Scots Pts I & II are finally complete, if you have either of these, or the collective volume, please update your copy on both Amazon and Smashwords (especially if it’s a really old one, my God please do that!) and make sure that the copy you have says 'Final Edition' under the title on the first page.

Finally, not only did I complete Prickly Scots', but also earlier this year, I revisited my entire body of work, and brought it all up to scratch too, so, if you own any of my other books, they all may be updated (even if they don't say Final Edition) for they are all far more sophisticated than their early editions were - and beautifully formatted and indexed too.

I have no choice now to get on with all my new stuff now that my babies have finally left home.  I might even go out in the sun, and... oh yes... I found a little puppy under my desk.... his name is MacGregor, apparently.

Save a buck and get the two books for one here at Amazon or Smashwords

Old fashioned pens... not!

Today I feel like griping a little.

I know a lady who’s always saying that they don’t make things like they used to, a lady whose house could probably match the bomb shelter in that movie... the one with Brendan Fraser in a time warp... for she's bought nothing new in years - despite being incredibly rich.  And she might be right.

In my business, I do have to jot things down with a pen quite frequently, electronics not entirely appropriate, and despite the fact I literally have hundreds of biros and gel pens – trays of which I buy at Costco - anytime I pick one up, it doesn’t work.  No amount of scratching around on the paper, ripping it to shreds in the process will make it write (or right) after its initial use of scratching a few words and its cap being removed; dried up like a Middle Eastern riverbed – the kind they use for wadi bashing (the practise of recklessly four-wheel driving in places like Dubai).  And pencils too, somehow every one of those never sharp enough to jot something down with despite being sharpened regularly. Now that I can get over, I'm heavy handed with certain things, but the pens, all of them, often not working as soon as they’re taken from the tray even? Outrageous. Indeed I have to agree, they don't make things like they used to... why, I remember a pen would last me a whole semester at school until it burst in my shirt pocket... now that's a writing implement.

No wonder everything seems to be mightier than the pen these days.  Oh... and I walked barefoot fifteen miles in the snow to get to school an' all....

Mediocrity Rools

Popularity is the one insult I never suffered

You know, when I was faced with writing my first blog ever, I thought what the hell could I write about?   Somehow it seemed daunting, different from creative writing which I find incredibly easy; the fingers just taking over, one word leading to the next, and then before I know it, they’ve created a whole new world, it’s 4am, and I’m well on my way to lung cancer.  But blogging isn’t the same – or at least, so I thought, until I decided just to take the same approach anyway; type a sentence about my real life and see where it all went.   But thank God the obsessive compulsiveness that, apparently, I have in a good way (according to one of my many ex-friends) couldn’t be catered to because of issues with my web-server that prevented me from publishing this new website last night.  Yes, what I’d turned out was a complete and utter diatribe that laid into two Asian women, a nosey parker fat (white) man (but the kind everybody hates) the homeless, and the City of Vancouver’s latest bi-law that is simply yet another money-grab scheme designed in order to rob loving pet owners of their hard earned cash so that the City can actually pass it onto the homeless.

But no, this morning when I woke up with a pounding headache, I was glad I hadn’t published all of that; at least not in its hateful state anyway; my anger issues from childhood still materialising from time to time, obviously.  But thinking clearer, as I do first thing these days (who knew I’d turn out to be a morning person, after all) I thought my first entry should be a diatribe geared at the writing world in general, given that this is a site about writing. 

My professor said that I showed off.  My immediate thought to that was, ‘yeah mate, that’s why you’ve had one short story published in all these years and you teach writing instead of publishing it.’  Well that, and because it soon became obvious that he had the imagination of a gnat, whereas mine soars the unknown.  But he might have been right, jealous, but right - at least in a sense.  I do show off, I know I do.  But if you got it, flaunt it (to coin the cliché and not showing off by inventing my own like I usually do... like I’m supposed to do as a writer).  So why shouldn’t I show off?  Isn’t that what it’s all about?  Apparently not, for you see, in my experience, despite the fact that everybody calls for originality, nobody actually wants it - or so it seems.  Neither, does anybody want to have to work at reading, wonder just where the author will go with the plot; take the time to dwell in well-crafted literary phrases and clever exposition.  No, apparently, they want it up front in a ‘cat on the mat’ styling - and bonus if you happen to have your main character being a Vampire. 

Personally, outside of Vincent Price playing Count Sforza, and all the other old black and white movies from childhood, I have no idea about modern day vampires; I’ve steered clear of such stories and am sickened by the obsession that the world continues to have with them.  I have no doubt that they are entertaining for many, but what I am getting at here, is just that; the human propensity to be mediocre, to go with the flow, to be told by society what it is you will like now, that my fate seems to lie in the hands of the teenage girl demographic – one that I have no connection to whatsoever, and nor do I want to.  Any true artist, who writes for the love of it and doesn’t want to simply jump on a bandwagon to make a buck, as many of us writers could if that was all that we were interested in, would say exactly the same.  In fact, they have done for time immemorial.

But what I would love to find is a literary agent who actually stands by their rubric; their claim that they are searching for exciting new authors.   One who would actually take the time to recognize original talent when they see it as opposed to only accepting those who recycle the same story over and over again because perhaps technically it’s perfect, but one who won’t throw your work to the wayside if they happen not to agree with where you placed a comma.  Did you know that most people who write computer code, could never possibly design an aesthetically pleasing website?  Same thing, for the most part, in my experience, and agents are supposed to offer an editing service, don’t you know?  Having said that, one agent told me that they loved the polished nature of my work, but I got the feel that he thought it was too polished.  Showing off?  You see this in Hollywood movies too; more often than not, every chick flick the same; serendipity rife, somebody, usually successful young professionals who can afford to do anything they want, and who loves their best friend’s boyfriend being the biggest obstacle they face in the story.  But don’t worry, missed opportunity always comes right in the frigging end, and everybody gets a more suited partner, the same with assassin movies; the main character always becoming the target themselves when they decide to retire.  I’m sick of it.  I’m sick of the same old, same old, and I am sick of mediocrity in general.  Which is why I hate people – well not people, per say, rather the predictability of the human race; nobody thinking for themselves it seems; waiting to be told what they’re going to like next.  Well, I’m telling ya... to like me... but then... I don’t come from a privileged background; not the son of somebody important, far from it, but if I was, anything I wrote would be hot of the fucking presses. 

Talking of exposition, I wonder how many reading this, got ‘My Ex-position-al Life’ on the opening page of my personal website if they visited, and not just the clever pun on the title, but the actual expositional account of my life there?  Anybody?  Either, or? Unfortunately I felt the need, because of the aforementioned gripe about that, to spell it out in the second page, ‘About Me’.  I guess that could be typical of what my professor meant about showing off though.  So, to some degree, trying hard not to compromise who I am, I have therefore adapted much of my writing style to cater to that, just like I did there – a tragedy in my book, if you’ll pardon, or even got that cheesy pun.  But you know, I sent that as my biography to one agent, as an experiment, show that I’m different while displaying my writing skill, who knows if they even got it, despite the fact that you can add a ‘signature’ to an auto-response email, most agents don’t even bother to respond, disclaiming the need to get back to you simply by saying if you don’t hear anything, we’re not interested.  Exactly when did the world get so fucking rude?

But I’ve always been strange, or so they’ve said, different, au contraire, etc, however some of the best artists of all time have been too, and trust me, I’ve been compared to many, living and dead, by those who’ve actually taken the time to read some of my work, other authors, and dare I say, fans, even, and at a time when I was completely amateur.  ‘Where do you get that imagination?’ they always say, ‘How can I write like you?’ ‘How do you come up with this stuff?’ ‘Wow, I’ve never read anything like that in my life.’ ‘You’re funnier than the best BBC writers of all time.’  Why then, if that’s the public’s reaction, doesn’t an agent see that?  Well, I’ll tell you... because they don’t look, they’re inundated with submissions, they read the first sentence only half the time, a sentence of a story that blends in with thousands of others of which they haven’t paid full attention to, hardly giving it a minute let alone the time of day.  And yes, I do know that the first sentence, the first paragraph is ‘make or break’.  An American Idol contestant on day one of the audition process is at least heard; unfortunately it’s not as easy for a writer, a true writer, one that was literally born to the pen and not just one another person who has a story to tell.  One whose characters are realistically nuanced and which don’t conform to the norm - but then isn’t that the problem?  It seems so. 

And lastly, don’t talk to me about the digital age; that’s no different than trying to get an agent or a publisher, in fact its worse; everybody and their dog with an E-book for sale, all undercutting each other trying to promote the pieces of shit that many of them are; misspelled, no plot, no formula, scribbling like sparrows scrawling in shite with no training in the creative writing process whatsoever, turning out their predictable first drafts written over the period of a full week, and all serving to drown the otherwise labours of love that some of us have taken months and even years, and many drafts later, to create, in an ocean of mediocrity that has only resulted in the reader becoming suspicious of all us budding writers.

One thing is for certain though, writing a blog certainly isn’t all that removed from creative writing at all; it just affords me a different style – ‘Diatribe According to Paul’ (that’s my middle name, but it sounds more biblical) is perhaps what I’ll call this blog when, maybe, just maybe, down the road, these collective little entries might just turn into a book unto itself.

Okay... now that I’m on a roll... if you do want to see the diatribe regarding the Asians, the fat man, the homeless, and the City of Vancouver, I’ve decided to publish it after all – to hell with it... to hell with you all – especially agents.  Is this where I’m supposed to put a lol... anybody... anybody at all? 

Click cover for samples of humorous poetry

                                                          Its Just Not Flair

I’m crap at poetry, I try, but I didn’t got a clue

About assembling art out of unintellectuable rhymes

Trying to establuish words that I didn’t even knew

And that would be better said in mime

I really nearly competently hate utensiling my brain,

Trying to like, you know, come across more clevererer

But really my words are obviously quite insanely inane

It’s honestly entirely just about a nearly pointless endeavour

I hate using poncy words that verse me and don’t even try to disburse

Pretending they have meaning what I know that they is

My attempts at the written spoken word just can’t get any worser

Methinks towards illitergisimy I’m leaning, my poetic justice amiss

So I’ll save you all wondering, and disclose I haven’t wroten with flair

Cause I know I ain’t in the abyss of witty wits when it comes to writing right fancy

So I’ll take my little doggerel for a walk, having thunk that you’re now aware

At least (like everybody else) I am original in the inside of my and your inner psyche