- Me: Why, hello Creative Rock Bottom, I see you've made a few additions since last we met.
- Creative Rock Bottom: Uh huh.
- Me: I love the sarlacc pit. I almost landed right in it as I was rocketing down from the stratosphere.
- Creative Rock Bottom: Yeah, it hasn't been fed in awhile.
- Me: Well, I'm sure you don't mind if I lay here on my face for the rest of my existence.
- Creative Rock Bottom: Uh huh.
- Me: ...
- Me: ...
- Me: ...
- Me: *eventually dies*
The daily blog entries of a sub-par unpublished writer. Also, I post a lot of live/acoustic music videos and talk about video games.ASK!!?!
Here are some lines written by students in grades 3rd-6th:
[Writing about a family member’s recent death]
The life of my heart is crimson.
My brother went down
to the river
and put dirt on.
Away went a dull winter wind
that rocked harshly, and bent you said,
[writing about a terminal illness]
I am feeling burdened
and I taste milk……
I mumble, ‘Please,
please run away.’
But it lives where I live.
The owls of midnight hoot like me
shutting the door to nothing.
I have provisions. Binary muffins.
It’s an in/out/in/out kind of universe.
We cannot help you,
this is a universe factory.
A sound of rolling symbols.
Disappearing rocks, screams of lizards.
Sanity must prevail. Save vs. Do Not.
I, the star god,
take bones from the
underworlds of past times
to create mankind.
I write this at some unmentionable hour having finally given up on the idea of sleep. It is pitch black in our windowless hostel room and the air is heavy with the smell of feet. There is a chorus of snoring from every corner and my head is in a fog of boredom.
We always come through Bruges when we tour the continent. It’s a beautiful town that doubles as a convenient pit-stop between our UK and German dates. A place in which to gather ourselves. It’s good to have an evening where we can all just relax over a few beers without thinking about load-in times, soundchecks and the rest.
Strangely though we barely spoke of the tour ahead. It’s only a little one (nine dates spread across Germany, Switzerland, Austria and Belgium), but we usually spend this time studying the tour book and discussing the venues. This evening we mostly just chatted about films and past antics, interspersed with the odd bit of date scheduling for album mixing and the like. This is our fourth time on the continent as a band and I wonder if we are in danger of beginning to look at what we do as normal.
I suppose it is inevitable though. We’ve been together a long time now, spent innumerable hours squeezed into the backs of vans and the backstages of venues, breathing in one another’s peculiar aromas, contributing to the shared pool of mutually inflicted wrinkles, aches and hair loss.
And though my nostrils are currently full with the attendant demons of various socks and armpits, this is by far my favourite time in the Bedlam calendar. Our age of constant social networking, self-marketing and general gimmick farming affords scant opportunities for a band to just be a band. But on the road we can be. It is a timeless thing we do here. A simple thing. And there is a rare and wonderful dignity in being true to the promises we made to ourselves as younger men. Here our phones don’t distract us, nor the endless fictions of Facebook, the perpetually raised eyebrow of twitter’s incessant epigrams or the bleating neediness of email. No utility bills or red-lined reminder letters from the council tax bloodhounds arrive where we are.
Our van may not be the best in the world but it’s fast enough to outrun adult responsibilities. For a few weeks at least.
I wrote this in an email to a friend:… plus I need to be a functional human today—I am volunteering to help underprivileged kids write college admissions essays, which is my JAM, but it’s with an organization I’ve never worked with before, and I am envisioning kind of hovering and feeling useless and saying things like, “Do you want a pen? Here. I’ve got like fifteen pens. What? No? Nobody?” Maybe I should write a book called “How to Win Friends by Carrying Like Fifteen Pens.”
His response had this attached:
In case you can’t read it, the acclaims for my book include:
“Amazing, we’ve all been there.” -Dolly Parton
“Finally, a use for pens!” -Tony Robbins
“Caitlin is the master of turning simple office supplies into social magic wands.” -Dr. Phil
I think the key to a happy life is to have friends who are just a little more talented than you are.
The guidelines are pretty damn loose, and frankly, right up my alley in terms of what they’re looking for content-wise.
I’ve already got something written for it, so now I just need to make it all purdy.
If I talk to you in pretty much any capacity, I will probably be coming to you soon to get your thoughts on the thing what I wrote.
I have to keep telling myself that this will probably not happen, I will probably not get featured in this anthology in any capacity —
BUT IF I DO I’LL GET $200 AND JK ROWLING WILL GIVE ME A HIGH FIVE AND STEPHEN SPIELBERG WILL CALL ME WITH A MOVIE DEAL AND I’LL GET FLOWERS AND AND AND
But seriously, this looks like a cool opportunity for any aspiring writer of fantasy/sci fi (IE: speculative fiction).
The guidelines say the wordcount limit is roughly 7500 words.
Deadline is May 15th.
Being called “a pretty lady” at the post office is like winning “most charismatic carbon-based being” in a room full of dead leaves. But it’s been a rough week in my brain, so I’LL TAKE IT.
Maybe the secret to earning random compliments is to constantly juxtapose yourself against really unappealing backdrops. If anyone needs me, I’ll be out by the dumpsters behind the Chili’s.
Is it just me, or does that rotting Bloomin’ Onion really bring out the blue in your eyes?
How to say it.
Well, first of all, today is an anniversary of sorts. A day corresponding with month and year to create and event. And so, a day just like any other.
In any case, it’s made me all introspective and shit.