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Writer rambles about being a writer and writing

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The art of writing combines dexterity with imagination, stamina, procrastination and insane mental journeys. You have to be worthy of being a criminal mastermind as well as be worthy of an asylum [at times]. You must also write. A hurdle in the process, but one necessary. Be prepared to feel bewildered, afraid and feeling the sweat of anticipation, precipitate on your brow. New life flows from your fingertips, so you may need to relax before you release the hidden truths locked in your very universes. Writers are gods of the hidden realms and the keeper of the keys of knowledge. Weavers of magic and wonder, the storm winds of change. They are the ones that have made history and recorded it. The beginning and the end. 


Your very body is composed of words in your own language spoken internally, a voice that never stays quiet. Writers are the ones that can transmute that disquiet into something new, something real. 


So as a writer, I live in those pockets between existence and ethereal. I fall into them without trying to. New voices and destinies cascade across my very dreams. Their lives live out in disquiet, wanting their truths known. The living and dead exist together, like threads bound to this world. One golden thread shimmering with breath, heartbeat and roaring noises screaming to the sky. The other, a thin translucent line, glittering like glass, whispering like the wind. The hidden. Clinging together and staying true to its course. I write for the whispers because it is only then, that the noise makes sense. 


You. You fascinate me.


We are our own universes… how you live, who you are, the things you love, your day… everything is beautiful and unknown to me. I want to know. I want to watch you. I want to breathe you in. I want to love your ways. You are like a veil; I want to see what is underneath. Yet, I do not want to move amongst you, I am comfortable, happy even, in my own cave. I am a child of heavy black curtains drawn, and candle light at all hours. The light is not the friend of my own church – the place I get to, to fall into the mode of just writing. 


As you can see, I have free wrote. I have simply sat here and let my hands and mind speak, freely. Post Malone playing in the background. My heart and soul lay open. Awaiting the crows to peck out my soul. Each crow wears my face; the face of extreme exhaustion, the face of distraction, the face of time going to fast. Deep breath. Stop. Now go. 

Permalink 1 comment (latest comment by Philip Mwarabu, Saturday, 4 May 2019, 22:21)
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Second assignment in and my first 5* review on Amazon!

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I have been working extremely hard on assignment two; script work has been very new to me but quite eye-opening and gave a new perspective. With things that I write, I do tend to see it in my mind's eye like a movie anyway, so to actually write as if in a movie, has further focused what I wish the audience to perceive. I do find the commentary harder, as I could write a lot about the process of construction, the learning, the enjoyment, the subject area that I chose. I just hope the person reading my script and the work that I put into it, finds it interesting. As for the EMA plan; I left it up to my social followings to choose a subject area - they are quite an interesting mix of people and I had quite a few ideas! After a few days, they settled on a point-of-view shifting perspectives story involving a stalker ex and his victim. Then, after a few glasses of red wine, whilst laying in a candle-lit piping-hot bath, with an acoustic-cover playlist playing, the story came to me! POW - I wanted the audience to feel that sensory explosion, so, I had to recreate synaesthesia from the stalker. Anyway, I am not going to give too much away. The idea is solid though! 

As I have written before, I have a published book on Amazon "Black Moon Rises: The First Book" - very proud if I do say so myself. After a horrendous 2018 filled with the biggest loss of my life, I had promised that I would move forward, and I did. I published my first book, I learnt to drive and I am doing my masters. After casually making notes for book two, I saw that I had my first review and it was a 5 star one from a verified purchaser, they had also asked when will book two be released. 

Now I don't know about you, but the second book is way harder to write! So I am making notes on the various strands that I left open, taking what I learnt from book one and everything that I have been learning from this course and trying to make book two THAT MUCH BETTER. 

On top of it all, I have the EMA to think about, and another book but of a different style that has been littering up my iphone notes. As well as a year's worth of interviews and notes pertaining to the adult industry that I really much translate into something. The insight has been incredible, and I did them because the psychology has always fascinated me, the fringes of society and the hidden world that is more common than you think. It has opened my eyes for sure! The things I could tell you...

Anyways, I thought i'd check in as I have really been meaning to! 


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Worked on a serial killer and weird dreams

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So this week, I have chosen to write [for week 2: character study] about  a serial killer/artist called Evelyn D'Lancey who has attended Birkbeck for the BA in Fine arts and currently is working on an MA in Fine Arts from St. Martins. Who, through her own traumas, ends up becoming a serial killer who produces art based on the murders; mostly abstract. And can only find true pleasure and passion through killing. She has a sociopath, narcissistic personality, yet knows how to hide her true nature with scientific precision. Like any true hunter, she knows that it is necessary for her survival. As a natural planner with slight obsessive compulsiveness, she prepares for everything. Even her own downfall.

I have found it all encompassing to write about; to do her justice with so little words [500] has been a difficult task in itself. But then you read others' work. They are all blooming fantastic, then you question yourself. Yes, us writers have the biggest ego's, i am certainly no different. I call myself an artist because, whilst writing is my truest love, photography and creating art through that medium, is my freedom. I get my writing. I mean, it comes from somewhere, and i love my characters. To me, each one is real. They live somewhere. Somewhere i tap into and reveal. Then, i read the wordiness and hyper-descriptions and think - am i too basic? Do i sound stupid? Easy to feel insecure. What if everything that i am, believe in myself and work is wrong? WHAT IF IT IS A PILE OF GARBAGE. WHAT IF... *silent scream* I over-think. If you care to learn about me, you'll find that. I have also never forced my writing. It is wholly organic, i free-write a lot and began with the character. As the protagonist becomes real, the rest come into view. Or an idea will be digested over a period of time until the voices begin. Then boom... pages, pages, more pages... until, silence.

My dreams tend to become quite adventurous as my subconscious tries to disseminate these stories. Take last night; I dreamt that i was in a pawn shop, looking to buy something. I did not have much money, and behind the till was the most unusual and beautiful instrument that i have ever seen [I do not play anything, i sing sometimes well. But love violin music as well as the modern stuff]

It was a twisted violin, with gold carvings from the neck to the sides. The wood was maple coloured yet glinted. It was a little Gothic in it's appearance, yet without being all black. Renaissance without the perfect structure. Twisted and dark with edges of light. Above it was the part used to play it, do you want to know what it was? A meat-clever, equally decorated. That's right, you would play this stunningly beautiful and twisted instrument with a gilded meat cleaver. In my dream, i really wanted it, but it was £99.99 and I had £20. I couldn't leave the shop, i was trying to work out how i would make it mine.

I woke up, to the shrill ring of my four alarms. Time to go back to the routine of my life.

What would you make of it? I know some of you are into dream stuff and psychology. I always found it hard to analyse myself.

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Hello and welcome to the James States show!

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“Hello and welcome to the James States show, today we have families in crisis. First, we have Greg; the man in the middle. And his son, Damon, who says his father has a god complex and since creating another family, has abandoned his original children and has completely disowned him. Greg, on the other hand, says that Damon is ‘the devil’ and does nothing but torment his family. That they, his other children are the ones with god complexes. What’s the truth? Join us today.”

The camera panned out. Showing a white-haired, strong-limbed, robust, muscular older man, with a beard coiffed into a perfect point. He looked like a country redneck Santa Claus; tattoos of angels and crosses climbed up from his arms and neck, he wore them well with a red plaid shirt folded to the elbow and fitted diesel jeans with the odd spot of oil on them. But his eyes were the darkest black, and his stare penetrated across the audience. Who sat motionless, transfixed. Next to him sat a leather and lace clad, pale man, with the clearest blue eyes.

“So, Damon. You called the show, tell us what has been going on.”

The leather-clad man shifted angrily and shot a look to Greg “That man is no father of mine” he spat “we had a happy family, then one day, he leaves” he gestured upwards with his hands “then we learn that he has started a family with trash” Damon spat those words as if venom in his mouth.

Greg cuts in “don’t call her that. She is the best thing to happen to me” he smiled towards the camera to an ashen looking Damon “you abandoned us. You destroyed mum” he got up suddenly, security rushed the stage, but Greg remained seated “your mother spoilt you all and was no wife to me” James States walked over to Damon “take a seat, if you hint of violence you will have to leave, and that won’t get your story out” Damon blinked and pulled his chair to the other side of the stage “my mother is a saint” he began “she put us first, always have, she did not deserve what you did…” Greg shot a pained look to Damon “you don’t know the half of it. She was no saint. In-fact she was violent” the audience gasped as if scripted. He knitted his eyebrows together “you know I was in the hospital due to her moods” Damon sneered “you deserved it”

James States cut in “that changes things. How was she violent to you” Greg sat back, and a pretty middle-aged lady dressed in a white cotton dress and sheep’s wool coat appeared at the side of the stage. She walked over to Greg and held his hands “…erm, and who are you?” James States asked “I’m his wife Valerie” she began “it’s okay Greg” she hushed him in soothing tones. Damon rolled his eyes “one, you are not his wife, dad didn’t even divorce mum and two, can’t you let dad do anything without you?” she shot him an annoyed look and James States interjected “as we did not ask you to come out, can you go take a seat or we will have to ask you to leave” she looked at Greg, who nodded and she kissed him on the head then walked off stage to the odd boo from the audience.

“How was she violent to you” James repeated. Greg looked straight at him “If she did not get her way, she would push, shove, scream, hit and if there was anything to hand, and I did not move quick enough out of there, well, let’s just say that she has landed me in hospital numerous times with everything from stab wounds to head injuries” the audience looked visibly shocked. “…and you say your mother was a saint” James turned to Damon “that is no act of a saint. No one deserves to be tortured. No person should put up with violence” Damon retorted “…and you think it was all one-sided? Mum used to cultivate rare plants, and he burned them all. He flooded her house! Not just that, but he emptied her bank account when he left! He left his children. If mum was so bad why would you leave us with her then? You’re sick.”

You could hear a pin drop with the silence.

“Your mother grew weed, not rare plants. That is how she made her money, but you knew that. I burned them because it was wrong of her to do that with you kids in the house. I accidentally flooded the house; I passed out from the fumes of the burning plants. I left you kids with her because she was never violent with you. She spoiled you. I left because if I stayed in that house, I would’ve been killed and where would that leave everyone? With nothing. I keep everything going. I pay for everything. Even when you lot hate me, you are as you are because I make sure you have everything you need. Yeah, I emptied her bank account, but I paid her back a thousand fold!”

James walked between the gaze of the two men “Your brother Jerry, son of your father and Valerie paints a completely different picture of your father. Here’s a statement “My father is not only a brilliant creator and artist, he is a kind, gentle, loving dad who misses his other kids and tries his best to get them to come around but they use him, abuse him and attack us constantly across social media and even by purchasing leaflets and sticking them up on lampposts” James raised his eyebrows “property has been damaged, tyres slashed and nasty graffiti was even painted across the front door, mum and dad are constantly hurt by Jill and their kids, then they play the poor me card to everyone who will listen, when they are the ones that have caused nothing but chaos” Wow, that is quite a statement. Yet you have to admit, Greg, your children, do feel abandoned by you.”

Greg shifted in his seat “I agree, and I have said I am sorry. I want a relationship with them and them to have a relationship with Jerry and the rest of the kids, I do. Damon please, can we just try” Damon’s eyes narrowed to slits “I hate you” Greg got up “this needs to stop!” he shouted. Damon got up. Security stood between them “what can I do to stop all this?!” Greg screamed. Damon laughed. James States stood between the two men “so there is no hope of reconciliation to your father” he pointedly asked Damon. Damon blinked “no, I will never forgive him” James pointed to the stage door, “then leave my stage” Damon stomped off not looking back to heavy boos from the audience. A sea of faces acting as one vehicle. Greg sat back in his seat, his head in his hands “I don’t know what else to do” he sadly sighed.

James patted him on the back “your ex-wife Jill is here” Greg suddenly sat straighter, his eyes went wide as a stunning blonde woman, in a sharp tailored, fitted suit walked out. Her nails were done to perfect points, and she wore high red heels, matching the colour of her lipsticks. She click-clacked onto the stage as a chair was placed by security, right next to Greg. She looked not much older than Damon and looked very slight compared to the man beside her. “Hello honey,” she purred, smiling. Greg swallowed hard “Jill” as his words left his lips, he swallowed uneasily.

James States walked over to her “You were violent to him” he pointed at Greg. She raised her eyebrows “yes, I was” she replied matter of fact “that is disgusting. And you wonder why he left. That took bravery. You are nothing but a coward. My audience may not agree with me talking to a woman like that, but I believe in equality. An abuser is an abuser. The lowest of the low. You owe him an apology” she leaned back “I am sorry for that. But you don’t know what it is like to live with him” the audience bristled, and booed her. She laughed “if I was so bad, why does he still want to be with me?” he shook his head, but his body language betrayed him, she made him nervous, but it was obvious that he was still attracted to her. She touched him, and he jumped up knocking his own chair over “I don’t want you, Jill.”

James States walked over “Jill provided us with texts that you sent last night” screenshots appeared on the screen behind them. The audience all cried out “ooooh.”

Jill remained seating and smiled. Whilst Greg started to sweat and shake.

James States read them out, pulling faces to each line.

“I miss you, Jill. I saw you in the lobby; I can’t believe how gorgeous you still are” Raised eyebrows.

“Thank you handsome” Smiling conspiratorially.

“I will always love you, you know” Confused face, pointed straight at Greg.

“I know. I love you too.” Looked to the ceiling then he added: “I think I know where this is going to go”… the audience laughed.

“I’d love to have one more night with you” He punctuated each word then added “oh my.”

“What would you do?” he started to laugh.

“Explore every inch of you with my mouth. Fill you. Get you pregnant.”

“You’re naughty” James States looked at Greg “yes you are naughty, Greg.”

“It’s just you. What you do to me. You make me into a bad man… I can’t help myself around you” he tipped his head to the side.

James States pointed to the screen and pulled a face to the audience “so Greg is the left blue bar and Jill is the right green bar, if you didn’t already realise” he began “get you pregnant?!” he whooped “that’s a new chat up line” the audience giggled “I would say put something on the end of it, but you shouldn’t be doing anything” the audience laughed hard on cue. “What on earth are you thinking?” Greg looked towards the floor “just look at her!” he gestured “I was stupid even contacting her, but she is a beautiful woman” James States looked to the ceiling “what about your wife, Valerie? Here she is…”

Valerie stormed on stage and straight up to Jill and slapped her. Jill just laughed whilst the security dragged her back “I told you V, that he would always be mine” she stepped towards Greg who pushed her away and went on his knees before Valerie “I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I love you not her” Valerie started to cry “I love you, Greg. I love you. You keep hurting me like this.”

James States caught those words “has Greg cheated on you?” he asked, head cocked to the side in mock sympathy. Valerie looked at him “yes, numerous women and even men” she shot a look back towards him “if it wasn’t for the kids…” she began, but Greg interrupted “no don’t say that” she sighed “you treat me no better than a lapdog. It’s over.” Jill looked triumphant behind them, with her arms crossed across her ample chest. Greg tried to hug Valerie, but she pushed him away. “He is the best father. But I am done. With him and her. I told him that if he did it again or even so much as messaged another woman, we would be done” Greg looked heartbroken “He will be in my bed tonight” Jill smiled. “He will come home.”

James stood in the middle of the stage “This is all a mess, yet no one has spoken about the kids that are in the middle of this. Stop acting out your teenage romantic dramas and grow up! These are two families in turmoil all due to the selfishness of one man. If you grow a pair, you wouldn’t be in this position in the first place” the audience whooped and cheered, numerous faces within the blanket of stares nodded in agreement.

“Maybe with our help, you can piece together your lives and work out a plan that will enable you all to be successful parents. Without you all blaming each other – he did this; she did that – because it is effecting your children. Throwing out jabs and then chasing each other has left at least one of your children damaged. You have all continued this point scoring for far too long. Take my help, and we will do our best to try and piece this all back together where you all can find a way to be amicable. And please, for the love of god, do not sleep with each other or get pregnant!”

The audience stood clapping as the scene faded to black.

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Writing things can sure get emotional.

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Sometimes, I feel like the stories that come out are like ghostly whispers; which can really drain you. I think you really have to feel and understand your characters as if it is you in a parallel universe or an intimate friend that really wants their story told. You have to be able to step in their shoes. But it can really get to you (depending on your subject matter)

I wrote the short story (attached) not because I was aiming to write about the subject matter, but due to the fact that once I started just writing, it flowed out. When writing it, I felt the rollercoaster of emotions. When I got to the end. I cried with the character. It was both cathartic and exhausting. 

Anyway, you might not enjoy it. Or you may. Either way, I wrote it because it wanted telling. 

K x

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