The Friars Club

 

Yes, I know the Friars Club is defunct now, but if they ever get revived, Benny boy would make a hell of a roasting victim. He loves being the victim. It's not second nature to him. It's first!

Mika's Rhetoric vs. Ethan Klein

 

Liora Rez, Israel's Favorite Butt Kisser

 

You Don't Care

VERSE 1

He’s bleeding all over the streets

Every enemy lies at his feet

Waterfalls pour down his cheeks

Sweat-covered clothing starts to reek

Weapon covered in hues of red

Heartbeat slows ‘til he’s damn near dead

Broken fist raised into the air

And you don’t care

 

VERSE 2

He’s lying on the pleather couch

Traumatic stories pour from his mouth

When the war started, shit went south

He was always looking for a way out

Every time the door would open

It’d slam his fingers until they’re swollen

His soul on full display to bare

And you don’t care

 

VERSE 3

The pages have long since yellowed

The critics have raged and bellowed

One star to rule them all

One book as toilet paper in the stall

Back to the drawing board, chalk in hand

Every broken dream has turned to sand

He’s got feelings of his own to share

And you don’t care

 

OUTRO

You’re so hard to please, you love to hate-watch

You love to just kick us all in the crotch

You’re just waiting for the tiniest botch

Get through another page with a bottle of Scotch

You don’t care, oh no, you don’t care

As if your opinion was enough to scare

Me into being an obedient bastard

But haven’t you heard? I serve no masters!

Suck It Up

VERSE 1

When you drop bombs on your least favorite race

The whole world watches with tears on their face

When you cry Cancel Culture after the fact

It should be you in a coffin lying on your back

You never had to suffer like the ones you’ve killed

Just ask your billionaire daddies to pay all the bills

Sugar baby, crybaby, whatever you are

Take your insults on the chin like a boxing superstar

 

PRE-CHORUS

When we call you out on your disgusting violence

The Wahmbulance gets you, let’s flash the sirens

 

CHORUS

Suck it up! You’re guilty as charged!

Suck it up! Yet you’re still at large!

Suck it up! Answer for your sins!

Suck it up! It’s not a war you will win!

Suck it up!

 

VERSE 2

When you fire your gun at the poor and innocent

You better expect an international incident

A golden badge is not a shield from callouts

A precinct won’t save you from nuclear fallout

Your critics don’t have missiles to level the land

They’ve got two middle fingers, one in either hand

Maybe a brick if they’re feeling kind of froggy

A bloody concussion to make you feel groggy

 

CHORUS

Suck it up! You’re guilty as charged!

Suck it up! Yet you’re still at large!

Suck it up! Answer for your sins!

Suck it up! It’s not a war you will win!

Suck it up!

 

BRIDGE

A bruised ego or a rotting corpse?

Which one’s worse? The latter, of course

You play the victim and reverse criticism

Easy as pie, ‘cause you control the system

 

CHORUS

Suck it up! You’re guilty as charged!

Suck it up! Yet you’re still at large!

Suck it up! Answer for your sins!

Suck it up! It’s not a war you will win!

Suck it up!

Suck it up!

Suck it up!

Do the world a favor and shut the fuck up!

Monster at Your Door

VERSE 1

There’s a monster at your door, though she looks like an angel

Taking pictures of your house from more than one angle

She won’t be the only one who shows up this evening

They got shotguns for popping, baseball bats for beating

You reach for the gun locked inside your steel cabinet

You got a machete to turn their clothes into cabbage

You got a one-way ticket in case you need to dip

But for now, no movement, just zip your fucking lip

VERSE 2

You can cross the country and then cross the ocean

But the monster’s fanatics are known for their devotion

If she gives marching orders, they’ll march your ass down

If you’re in the biggest city or the tiniest of towns

It takes a marathon sprint to get the fuck away

Until your legs crumble like they’re paper mâché

Until your heart beats at a million per minute

Until your sanity is pushed beyond explosive limits

VERSE 3

Nobody in their right mind will think this is fair

If they do, they got no brain under their hair

Monsters have short fuses over absolutely nothing

The tiniest infraction is worth a lifetime of cussing

Throwing a fit and making big ass scenes

They got fuck-you money and the praise of the machine

But if the history of tyrants is anything to go by

Their empires will crumble as they crocodile cry

Judgment Day (Never Back Down)

When Judgment Day comes, may I never back down

May I strike the match and burn it all to the ground

Sticks and stones are going to break my bones

And then you can film it all on your new iPhone

Names will never hurt me, but we know that’s a lie

It’s the buzzing in my brain that makes me want to die

Don’t call it Cancel Culture, ‘cause it’s consequences

It’s called the First Amendment, in all of your defenses

I don’t need whole army to make my excuses

Anything they do will end up being so useless

Let the town square pull out their own hair

‘Cause rage and depravation are their arms to bear

When shit comes to an end, none of us are right

Subjectivity is why we all love to fight

We see the fucked up world through our own lenses

And then bite down on our jaws with stressful intentions

Can we come together? Why would we want to?

To be fair I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near you

All this zealot fire and not a new thing was learned

We still hate each other and the world still burned

All this strangulation over one of my songs

Keep the message simple, just tell me that I’m wrong

On any given day, I could be weak or strong

I ebb and flow so much, yet I’m floundering along

I guess I’ll go back to my comfort zone

And never have to care about those sticks and stones

Judgment Day passed and I never backed down

I’ll see you all tomorrow, we can take it back around

Impostor Syndrome

VERSE 1

Raindrops on my window, I’ll stay home today

No point in getting wet when I go out and play

No point in getting off my comfortable mattress

If I stay in bed, I can’t be hated by the masses

Putting fingers to keyboard is career suicide

If I fuck up once, then nobody’s on my side

Impostor Syndrome is burying my body alive

No dreams to pursue, no need to really strive

CHORUS 1

Maybe my inner critic has a damn good point

Maybe my answers are traveling an empty void

Maybe this little song is just cacophonic noise

Impostor Syndrome, like I really have a choice

VERSE 2

“Too offensive, too dense, too ugly, too fat

Too young, too stupid, too this, too that

Too many mistakes, don’t you ever learn?

Not enough achievements, nothing to earn”

CHORUS 1

Maybe my inner critic has a damn good point

Maybe my answers are traveling an empty void

Maybe this little song is just cacophonic noise

Impostor Syndrome, like I really have a choice

BRIDGE

“Don’t you cry, you brought this on yourself

All your life’s work will never leave the shelf

What life’s work? Oh yeah, you don’t have any

How many years did you waste? Too damn many”

CHORUS 2

Maybe my inner critic is teaching me a lesson

Maybe my outer critics should be holding weapons

Maybe the universe has come to collect the rent

Impostor Syndrome a.k.a. the never-ending debt

Impostor Syndrome a.k.a. the reason I’m dead

WHISPERY DIALOGUE

Shh…Shh…It’s okay

Everything will be okay

You just fell down a rabbit hole again

You’re still mourning

You have to make peace with the past

And the present

And the future

Everything will be okay

I promise you

I love you

I always will

It's a Free World

***IT’S A FREE WORLD***

Your writing career can be an amazing time in your life full of magic, adventure, and wonder, not unlike the worlds you create through your craft. But at the same time, it isn’t all rainbows and Skittles. More like Martian death rays and dick. Sooner or later, you as a writer will have to come to terms with the fact that criticism is inevitable, whether it’s constructive feedback from your beta readers or malicious trolling from a faceless bastard. Does it hurt no matter how well-intentioned it is? Always. It’s like saying the sun’s going to come up tomorrow. Everybody knows that. We all feel at least some sensitivity when it comes to what we produce. To be fair, your career won’t rise or fall based on one bad review or even a hundred. How you react to those reviews? That’s a little closer to a career killer if you’re too aggressive.

While I still get anxious feelings in my gut at the thought of being judged, I’m not anywhere close to being as bad at taking criticism as I was all throughout the 2000’s. I was a fucking monster when it came to responding to my critics. That’s part of the reason why I consider the 2000’s to be the hardest decade of my life: because I wouldn’t let anybody teach me how to better myself. I incorrectly assumed my critics were out to play with my brain like silly putty and mold me into something I’m not. Being a soul-dead conformist is bad. Being a better artist and a better person is something we should all strive for. So I guess I would be conforming to commonsense and decency, by that definition.

My first “traumatic episode” with criticism came in 2001, where I attended an anime/sci-fi/fantasy convention called INCON. One of the attractions at this event was having your manuscript critiqued by five different professional authors. What did I submit to this critique session? A Starcraft rip-off known as The Earth Campaign, which sounds more like an eco-terrorist group than a legitimate space opera. The first pro-author’s main complaint was that there weren’t enough visuals in my writing, a.k.a. not enough showing and too much telling. The second pro-author’s complaint was that my characters were making stupid decisions.

Basically, my manuscript TOLD the audience that a space rebel scissor kicked a glass pod and almost broke his ankle rather than opening it a reasonable way, thus he was “thinking with his gonads”. Mild sexism aside, I walked away after the first two authors said their peace and was a teary mess for the rest of the night. I sang Pink Floyd songs on the fire exit for good measure. I had it in my head that the only reason I had fight scenes at all in my book was because of my male organs and not because I genuinely like that stuff. Well-intentioned criticism, but I took it the wrong way and that set the tone for the rest of the 2000’s.

Fast forward to 2004 where I took a creative writing class at Olympic College. Admittedly, this was not a safe, nurturing environment for any author because the students had no limits on the harshness of their criticisms. If they wanted to insult me, they could. If they wanted to destroy my self-esteem, they could go nuts. That’s exactly what happened when I wrote a medieval fantasy story where a witch hunter tried to recruit an acrobatic thief into his guild, to no success whatsoever. The chapter ended with a guerrilla army hiding under a pile of leaves springing to life in an attempt to test the acrobat’s kung fu skills. Yes, those were real errors in my story. Everyone in the class had all criticisms for me and no praise, a stark contrast to other authors who got at least some praise.

The worst of my criticisms came from a guy who simply said my story “sucked”. No context. No reasons. Just that it “sucked”. To be fair to him, it did, anachronisms and telling instead of showing aside. While I regret not taking my criticism in an appropriate way, I wouldn’t have developed my newfound skills as a poet if this didn’t happen. I wrote an insult poem about the guy who said my story sucked, where I detailed all the ways in which I would fuck his female relatives while comparing him to a Lord of the Rings hobbit. The poem was rubbish, but it was good start. Sucking at something is the first step to being sort of good at something.

Whether I was getting bad grades in college or negative comments on Deviant Art, my descent into madness spiraled out of control for the rest of the 2000’s. I screamed at my Deviant Art critics and wrote more angry poetry about them, detailing how I would once again fuck their female relatives while comparing them to people with Down’s Syndrome and sewer mutants. I silently seethed when one of my creative writing teachers gave me a C in her class despite me following her orders not to write R-rated offensiveness. So much anger and rage built up inside of me that taking any sort of mild criticism would result in the tongue-lashing from hell.

And then the 2000’s climaxed with the worst of the worst, both in terms of my own crass behavior and also in terms of the criticism I’ve received on Deviant Art. Two days after Christmas in 2009, I opened my inbox to find that several Deviants were angry about a comedic essay I wrote called “Class of ‘13”, named after Green Day lyrics. In this essay, I fantasized about being an autocratic schoolteacher who would whip my students if they talked like “text-messaging queens” in their creative writing projects. I derided an entire generation for growing up with technology, basically condemning myself as a 24-year-old Boomer.

I eventually deleted my essay and apologized, but not before I screamed at my critics to “get in a circle and butt fuck each other”. I also wrote an angry poem about one of these critics where I told him to “drink gasoline”. As one critic so rightfully put it, “Change or die!” From that day on, I decided no online battle was worth fighting because fighting never solved anything. Nobody changed their mind because I told them to “suck a dick” or “eat my shit”. When given the choice to change or die, I chose to change. The battering my mind took wasn’t worth it, but it was just what I needed.

While the 2000’s were the hardest decade of my life, the 2010’s were the easiest. Sure, I had my fair share of shitty moments, but the way I responded to criticism was much better. I knew my writing career was stagnating. Nothing of mine was getting published and why would it? My work was mediocre at best and a dumpster fire at worst. Accepting criticism and sometimes shelling out money for it was the only way out of spinning my wheels. The more people I let in, the happier I was and the stronger my writing became. I’ve made many friends along the way and I wouldn’t trade any of them for the world. I’ve gotten a few shitty reviews on my self-published books, but I’ve also gotten some good ones.

While improvement is a necessary part of one’s writing career, it won’t change the fact that nobody is above criticism despite how far they’ve come. That’s something you’re going to have to be okay with if you want a successful career. It’s 2020 and I’ve learned my lessons. In the end, we don’t just live in a “free country”. We live in a free world. Whether you live in America, Canada, England, or even Saudi Arabia, you have the right to say whatever you want about my writing and I won’t hound you for it.

Bad reviews won’t derail somebody’s career; a lack of humility will. I sincerely believe Norman Boutin could have had a successful career despite Empress Theresa being boring as hell, if only he didn’t lash out at everyone who criticized his work. Hell, if he had accepted criticism gracefully, he probably wouldn’t have a boring book to begin with. Same thing goes for Ann Fishman, Onision (sexual crimes be damned), and whoever wrote My Immortal (the Harry Potter fan fiction, not the Evanescence song).

Does criticism hurt? Absolutely. It always will. But do you have to react poorly to it? Never. Hell, you can flat out ignore the trolling if you want. You can even block some of the trolls if they get to be too much. But the louder you scream, the louder the world screams back at you. Isn’t that right, Donald the Magic Dumbass? I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***INTERNET DIALOGUE OF THE DAY***

(Circa 2018)

ASHLEY: Oh my god, Garrison! I need to convince you to get a Pay Pal account!

GARRISON: In the words of that Steven Crowder meme, “Change my mind.”

ASHLEY: Dude, mailing checks is so 1995.

GARRISON: Congratulations, you’ve won.

ASHLEY: Yay!

***POST-SCRIPT***

See what happens when you accept other people’s advice? You get a PayPal account AND a healthy writing career!

Not Reading Your Own Reviews

***NOT READING YOUR OWN REVIEWS***

If you’re an author or creator of any kind, there’s one universal fact that you’ll have to blindly accept right off the bat: you will have critics, you will have bad reviews, and there’s nothing you can do about it other than keep on keeping on. It took me a LONG ass time to accept this, but I’m in a better position in my life because I did. Everyone in your audience has a unique point of view and that’s the way it should be. You don’t get to be a ruthless North Korean dictator just because you have sensitive feelings. But having said all of this, while you’re required to accept the fact you will be criticized, you are NOT obligated to read your own negative reviews.

That’s not the same thing as accepting feedback from your inner circle. Beta readers and editors are there for the sole purpose of giving you constructive feedback and advice on how to fix your manuscript’s worst flaws. You should welcome these people into your life because that’s how you get better as a writer. But reviewers are an entirely different animal altogether. Once your book is published, all bets are off. Reviewers are not obligated to be kind or constructive. Their job is to give an honest opinion of the work in question, nothing more, nothing less. Reviews are not written for the benefit of the author. They’re for the benefit of future readers, whether it’s advice to stay away from the published work or gravitate towards it en masse.

But just because someone is entitled to their negative opinion of you and your work, it doesn’t mean you have to force yourself to read what they have to say. That should be reserved for the beta readers and editors. Getting negative reviews is stressful. I know this because I’ve gotten a few of them myself (surprise, surprise) and haven’t brought myself to read what they actually say. You could argue that I’m a special little snowflake who gets easily hurt and you’d be right in that regard. Having a litany of mental health issues weakens my defenses when it comes to receiving harsh words. I want desperately to be a superhuman badass in the face of adversity, but I don’t get to have that choice. It seems as though every one of my author friends is secretly Superman or Wonder Woman, but I forget that they too have bad days when it comes to criticism. The only difference is, they have the ability to endure more than I can and it shows in their marketing schemes.

I’ve been watching a lot of Book Tube lately and had a nice little marketing strategy in mind: sending copies of my already published books to them and having them make videos about their honest opinions. I enjoy watching creators like Krimson Rogue, Rachel Oates, and Jordan Harvey work their magic. They’re entertaining, they’re thoughtful, they’re wise, and they’re the perfect candidates for reviewing my books, right? Well, that’s where my overactive, anxious imagination comes into play. I’ve played out tear-jerking scenarios in my head where these Book Tubers create videos bashing the shit out of my works and sending their viewers over to my social media to mob me out of existence. I know full well they’re not mean people. In fact, most of them don’t believe in cancel culture. But the thoughts have crossed my mind nonetheless and they’re maddening.

If they hypothetically were to give my books negative reviews, it’s not like they’d be entirely wrong in their opinions. Over the past decade, I’ve written some disgusting, nasty, overbearing shit and it’s only a matter of time before someone’s head explodes from reading it all. It could be Mitch McLeod coming off as a Gary-Stu. It could be me having a laugh at the expense of people from the south. Hell, one scenario I’ve imagined (but not realized yet) is Krimson Rogue jokingly calling one of my poetry books Confessions of a Schizophrenic Misogynist. For Christ’s sake, the book starts off by saying, “True blue, I don’t need a 62, your wife’s sweet juices will just have to do.” I don’t want to say that’s a red flag, but…well, it’s a red flag. A BIG fucking red flag.

Yes, my writing career has stagnated due to my lack of marketing prowess. Yes, I know what I need to do to fix that. But am I prepared for the consequences of doing so? Far from it. I’ve been mobbed online before and it’s not fun. Hell, I’ve gotten sad and angry when the harsh criticism was delivered in a gentle way. Like I said, I long for the day when I can be an ultra-tough superman, but I also know that day is never going to come, not in my condition. I firmly believe mental toughness is something you’re born with. Sure, you could sign up for the army and grow accustomed to having a drill instructor scream in your face 24/7, but if you’re not already mentally tough, that won’t build you up; it’ll knock your ass down for the count. I was born sensitive and I’ll take that to the grave with me several decades down the line.

So…if I were to follow through with my plan to allow Book Tubers to review what I’ve got and give an honest opinion, I should include one condition to the deal: that no matter how offensive the content is, we will still be friends. I’ll gladly agree to my end of that deal. If they give me one and two-star reviews, I will still think of them as my favorite friends. But will they feel the same about me? Yes, I consider some of these Book Tubers to be friends despite not knowing them well enough. Maybe I’m just a fan of their work and don’t want to be cast down by my own heroes. Maybe this condition isn’t necessary at all. But no matter if I include this provision or not, I still remain firm in my belief that reading my own reviews and watching my own response videos will only do more harm than good. Yes, I’d get the exposure I need, but like I said earlier, reviews are not for authors; they are for other readers. True critiques will come from your beta readers and editors. Hannah Lee Kidder, the author of Little Birds, agrees wholeheartedly with me and she’s more successful than I am at the moment, so if you can’t take my word for it, take hers.

If you want a copy of any of my books and you want to give an honest review of it, don’t be afraid to reach out to me. Your opinion matters. Nobody can take that away from you. Here’s my bibliography:

1. Occupy Wrestling (pro-wrestling urban fantasy novella)
2. American Darkness (contemporary micro-fiction collection)
3. Poison Tongue Tales (sci-fi, fantasy, and horror micro-fiction collection)
4. Confessions of a Schizophrenic Savage (poetry and songs)
5. Necrograph (more poetry and songs)
6. Lunatic Justice (even more poetry and songs)
7. Still Standing (anti-bullying anthology alongside other authors)

Which one of you wants a nice reading adventure? I’m all ears! I’m Garrison Kelly! Until next time, try to enjoy the daylight!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER PROGRESS***

It’s been a long time in between edit jobs, but as of today, I’ve completed a chapter-by-chapter synopsis, a prologue, and six opening chapters. Chapter seven will be the one where Shelly Atwood and one of her minions give Windham Xavier a bath. What could be so exciting about that, you ask? First of all, as I’ve already established, Shelly Atwood has no business touching Windham on any part of this body, much less when he’s butt naked in bath water. Eventually, he’s going to have to make a break for it. And he just fucking might!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“This world asks for so much. Despite what you give, it’s just never enough. Then you’re left cold, tired, and alone. Searching for something that’s already gone. You try not to be afraid. Bound down by all of these things that they say. And you feel like you’re all by yourself. But I’ll be right here when there’s nothing left. Your fears, they know that you’re scared. Wherever you go, they seem to meet you there. And you face them all on your own. Never the weak, always the strong. And you win most of the time. Never once claiming that victory’s mine. And you carry this burden alone. But this candle’s burned at both ends for so long. Lay down. Rest here in peace in my arms now knowing you’re safe from the storms and the rain and from all of your pain. And I’ll be here when only the silence remains.”

-3 Doors Down singing “The Silence Remains”-

Paying Your Dues

VERSE 1

All your horror stories will come with a price

All your greatest fears will come back to life

You got your ass cancelled for no good reason

All of your fans have been accused of treason

This is what it means when you pay your dues

Screaming heavy metal, yet singing the blues

Your interest rate is up to a hundred percent

Many more lonely nights is what you’ll spend

CHORUS 1

Paying your dues is what your critics choose

Paying your dues means you sometimes lose

Paying your dues will tax your ass raw

Steel your spine and tighten your jaw

VERSE 2

Nobody said that this would be easy

Nobody said that this would be pleasing

It’s all a part of life if you like it or not

Always somebody to steal your spot

CHORUS 1

Paying your dues is what your critics choose

Paying your dues means you sometimes lose

Paying your dues will tax your ass raw

Steel your spine and tighten your jaw

VERSE 3

Everybody gets what they paid for in the end

Even if it costs them every one of their friends

Even if it costs them their own damn health

Guarantees them a place in their own hell

Despite all the pain, you could fail again

Back to square one, far away from the end

Everyone knows this ain’t a meritocracy

But they cover it up with their own hypocrisy

CHORUS 2

Paying your dues ain’t no ocean cruise

Paying your dues comes with an ego bruise

Paying your dues will break you in half

When you scale to the top, it’s okay to laugh

This is Mount Everest reaching to the stars

This will show the world how tough you are

I hope you get everything you’ve wanted

You and the elite have much in common

Impostor Syndrome

***IMPOSTOR SYNDROME VS. ARROGANCE***

Last year when Hollow Hills put together the Still Standing anti-bullying anthology, Aurora Styles wrote a blog entry joking about how that book should be known as “The Curse of the Self-Loathing Authors”, or something to that effect. It was true. There was something about writing that book that made the authors, myself included, feel unsatisfied, like they have Impostor Syndrome. While it’s nice to be humble throughout your writing journeys, you have to believe in yourself at least a little bit in order to get shit done.

I must confess that I’ve struggled with Impostor Syndrome since I began writing and editing Emilio & Marigold for this year’s Hollow Hills anthology. I held such a negative opinion of my own writing that I actually started having anxious thoughts about potentially being fired from Hollow Hills. Of course, it would take more than writing a mediocre story for that to happen, but anxiety is anxiety and it doesn’t give any quarter. I’m not looking for sympathy nor am I fishing for compliments. I’ve dealt with the beast of Impostor Syndrome before and I can deal with it again. Beside, the anxious thoughts about a potential firing went away after twenty-four hours. That’s it.

It seems as though I’ve spent a good while trying to find a balance between Impostor Syndrome (extreme self-doubt) and arrogance (unjustified self-esteem). The middle passage is somewhere out there. I’ve got to find it. Just like I’ve got to find the middle passage between Mary-Sue characters and those whose flaws make them the most hated characters in my story. If you throw a pin into a gigantic pool of water, that’s where the middle passage is. Some authors have found it, others have not and their writing suffers because of it. Oh, there goes my Impostor Syndrome again!

In case you’ve ever felt like you were alone in this, know that you’re not. I don’t want to say that Impostor Syndrome is a necessary part of the creative process, because it’s not. Sure, you need to recognize your own flaws as an author and work on strengthening them. Sure, you need to take criticism gracefully and use it to build a strong foundation. But when your Impostor Syndrome is all-consuming, it can have some detrimental effects. I’m not saying I have the cure for what ails you, because I don’t. All I know is that some days you’ll feel like you can take on the world and other days you’ll feel like dog shit. Can you do anything about this? Can you have more high days than low ones? Hmm…

Not to let my Impostor Syndrome kick in again, but I really didn’t plan this blog entry through very well. I’ve got one page worth of text and I’m guessing it’s about five hundred words long, which is a thousand less than a novel chapter or short story usually is. Don’t worry, I don’t have my compliment fishing rod and tackle box out and I’m not a gold medalist in the Oppression Olympics. I’m just working through some things right now, that’s all.

You know what would work great for my Impostor Syndrome? Being able to rest my head on someone’s lap while they stroke my hair. It sounds perverted on the surface and that’s probably why my short story Schizophrenic Playboy wasn’t a smash hit anywhere that I posted it. But you know what? It doesn’t have to be perverted. It can be completely platonic. Gender wouldn’t even matter to me. Just resting my head on someone’s lap would feel nice right about now. I’ve been watching a lot of Cuddle Sanctuary videos lately, so that might be where I’m getting this from.

Do any of you struggle with Impostor Syndrome? I bet I’ll get a shit ton of yeses to this question, but I figured I’d ask anyways. What are some of your coping techniques? Do you just push through the days and hope that you’ve got more good days than bad ones? I’m Garrison Kelly! Even when you feel like dying, keep climbing the mountain!

***BEAUTIFUL MONSTER***

In between edits of Emilio & Marigold, I’ve been quietly writing new chapters of Beautiful Monster and the next one will be number twenty-three. In this chapter, Windham, Llewellyn, and Tarja are taking shelter in a cave on the beach and they’re trying to figure out a plan to reclaim the Xavier Village from the Shadow Asylum mercenaries and Atwood Queendom soldiers. Three warriors versus an entire army? How is that even possible?!

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“Rape me. Rape me, my friend. Rape me. Rape me again. I’m not the only one. Hate me. Do it and do it again. Waste me. Rape me, my friend. I’m not the only one. My favorite inside source. I’ll kiss your open sores. I appreciate your concern. You’re going to stink and burn.”

-Nirvana singing “Rape Me”-

***POST-SCRIPT***

I feel that Nirvana’s anti-rape song will become a rallying cry for Windham Xavier throughout Beautiful Monster’s final five chapters. I’m strangely okay with that. It’s certainly more appropriate than “I’ll Be Over You” by Toto, which is what I’ve proposed for the first draft. The first draft…Millennium for emo kids…(shivers). Goddamn Impostor Syndrome!

Taking Criticism: Defense vs. Surrender

***TAKING CRITICISM: DEFENSE VS. SURRENDER***

Taking criticism is something all authors have to do whether it’s constructive advice from a friend or an all out assault from a complete stranger. I’ve seen my fair share of both since I got serious about writing in 2001. Developing a thick skin isn’t always easy. It’s not something ready-made or even something you’re born with. But regardless of whether you’ve got paper skin or a suit of steel armor, there comes a time in every author’s career when he has to decide: is this piece of literature worth defending or should it be surrendered to the critics? The trick here is to find a balance between defense and surrender; it can never be all or nothing.

I know this, because throughout the 2000’s when I was wild and young, I would defend everything I wrote. Everything! It didn’t matter if it was good or bad, offensive or sterile, first draft or multiple, I had a huge enough ego to believe that everything I wrote turned to gold. Whenever somebody online would tear down my walls, I built them back up ten times stronger. In my mind, because I had the first amendment on my side, I never had to apologize for anything I wrote and I was absolved of all guilt. And then December 27^th, 2009 rolled along and a small army of angry Deviant Art members logged on to tell me how ageist an essay I wrote called “Class of ‘13” was, where I absentmindedly labeled high school students a bunch of text-messaging queens. I fought valiantly against this small army, but ultimately decided ageism against the youth wasn’t worth defending, so now Class of ’13 is gone from my Deviant Art gallery. To this day, I still take issue with people who blame millennials for everything wrong with the world.

And then came the 2010’s and I found myself doing a lot more surrendering than defending. I don’t know if that 2009 experience jolted something inside me or if maturity kicked in, but it’s like my dad once said about me: I’m friends with everyone. It’s true. I value friendship and growth so much that I purposefully tiptoe around delicate issues. That’s why in 2014 when I wrote an erotic kidnapping short story called “Tainted Love”, I took it down days later when it received criticism for being sexist (even though one person said it was steamy and hot). Because I took the calm and collected approach, I found my friendships still intact and I’m still a long and strong member of the WSS, which I take a lot of pride in.

While turning the other cheek will keep you out of trouble and out of the crosshairs of angry keyboard warriors, you can’t take that attitude with everything you write. If you whitewashed the offensiveness out of everything you wrote, you’d have a whole lot of nothing in your repertoire. It’s like that Face Book meme once said: it’s better to write for yourself and have no public than write for the public and have no self. For a guy who preaches individuality and nonconformity in almost all of my poetry, I sure do curl up in the corner when the heat gets hot. That’s not a good strategy for someone who wants success in the writing industry.

I know this, because one of my novel ideas is currently on hold due to it potentially being rejected by the websites I plan on posting it on. It’s called Puberty X Piracy and it’s an urban fantasy story about a teenager who uses and distributes online porn. On one hand, I could defend this as something that’s personal to me since I like a good wank too. On the other hand, writing this novel could be grounds for termination from whatever social media sites I’m using because of its explicit themes of masturbation, actual sex, and male genital mutilation. Of course, I don’t necessarily have to post these chapters on social media, but it’d be nice to get something out there that didn’t result in catastrophe.

I said before that the key to surviving life as an author is knowing the difference between what is defensible and what needs to be surrendered. I tried defending everything in the 2000’s and it ended horribly. It’s the 2010’s and I’m surrendering everything, but there’s a good chance somebody might like the things I’m surrendering. Which one’s worse: being a dick or missing opportunities? I’d like to think that’s an easy question, but at some point, I have to start sticking up for myself. I just can’t tell the difference between when it’s necessary and when it isn’t.

A common litmus test for this debate is to gage how many people agree or disagree with the piece of literature in question, but that’s not always accurate. There are people who love the shit out of Fifty Shades of Grey and despite the hell out of Winnie the Pooh. Yes, folks, there are people who fucking hate Winnie the Pooh. And Tigger. And Piglet. There are also people who wouldn’t mind sucking on a “Christian Grey flavored popsicle”, whatever the fuck that is. Like I said: write for yourself, not the public. There are people in this world who still think the earth is flat. I may surrender a lot of my talking points, but I refuse to hand the keys of the kingdom to a bunch of flat-earthers. It’s round, motherfuckers! It’s round!

If popularity is a bad litmus test for defensiveness vs. surrender, what’s a good one? That’s a question I don’t have the answer for. I’m 32 years old and celebrating my 16^th year as a semi-professional author, yet I’m no closer to tapping into that particular piece of wisdom. I know I’m shouting into the abyss when I post these blog entries, but I’m still shouting, damn it. If any of my readers have the slightest inkling as to what the answer could be, let me know and I’ll take it into consideration. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***AMERICAN DARKNESS 3***

Until I become fully committed to Puberty X Piracy, I’m going to start working on the third installment of American Darkness a.k.a. the series of stories that once made Andy Peloquin exclaim, “DARK SHIT!” I have fifty-two story ideas in this particular volume, but all I need is fifty and I’m going to go down the list alphabetically. That means the first story to go in this book will be…slightly less dark than the others. Probably not the best way to start a book with darkness in the title, but it starts with an A, so suck it. It’s called “Adorably Clueless” and it goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Billy Mann, College Librarian
2. Mia Rodriguez, Flirty Customer
3. Dottie Jackson, Billy’s Coworker

PROMPT CONFORMITY: To be announced.

SYNOPSIS: Billy has gone through his entire life without experiencing romance and is feeling lonely and sad because of it. One day at the college library, Billy checks out a few books to Mia, who unbeknown to him was flirting with him the entire time. When Mia walks away, Dottie giggles at Billy and calls him “adorably clueless” when it comes to his social awkwardness and inability to detect flirtation. With the college’s “Second Chance Prom” coming up in a few weeks, Billy has to get his act together if he wants to capitalize on this almost missed opportunity.

***DARK FANTASY WARRIORS***

Because my next first draft book will be a collection of modern day dramas, the number of characters from the fantasy genre I have left to draw are limited to two: Debra Lynch (elf rogue) and Johnny De Morgan (human busker), both of them from the final Poison Tongue Tales 2 story “Street Sleeper”. If I really want to continue drawing these characters, I’ll have to find another source other than stories I’ve already written.

***THE CAT WHO ROBBED A BANK***

I’ve been a Lilian Jackson Braun fan since I became a born-again reader in 2009. I’ve given all of her books passing grades for their light material and cute kitties. This one will be no different, though you’re probably asking why I keep reading these “Cat Who” books if they’re so predictable. That’s basically like asking why I keep buying CD’s of a certain band if they do the same kind of music: because I fucking like them! If you like something, don’t question or pick away at it. Don’t surrender that shit to anybody with ignorant questions. See what I did there?

***JOKE OF THE DAY***

Q: What do you call a blacksmith who likes butt sex?

A: Forge packer.

***POST-SCRIPT***

Just in case there’s any confusion, no, I won’t surrender that joke either.

Perfectionism vs. Word Vomit

***PERFECTIONISM VS. WORD VOMIT***

If you’re a budding author, you’ve probably heard this piece of advice before: “Write every day. It doesn’t matter if it’s carefully chiseled out or the worst thing written in the history of the world. Let the editors take care of your mistakes.” A lot of professional authors say this and for a lot of rookies this advice works. This is just my preference, but this particular piece of advice doesn’t work for me.

If I write something, I want it to be golden from the start. While it’s true that no first draft is perfect the first time around, I at least want to try to make it into the best thing I can. This is why I don’t write everyday: because there are some days where my brain is so foggy that I can’t produce that perfect piece of writing. To my way of thinking, if I can’t be good at what I do, then what’s the point? Do my editors really want to go through the nightmare of cleaning up my messes?

If you’ve ever seen my drawings before, you would ask why I don’t take the perfectionism route with them given their weird quality. Yes, it’s true that my drawings don’t always look like golden goose eggs. But that doesn’t mean I don’t try. That’s the important thing for me: while I’ll never be 100% perfect, I at least have to try my hardest. Editing will be much easier if I actually make an effort to produce a good piece of art.

But like I said earlier, this approach to art doesn’t work for everybody, but it works for me. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I used to have a huge ego back in my college days. It’s true: even the smallest criticisms would make me retreat into my safe place, and this was in my late teens and early twenties. When my creative nonfiction teacher asked the class, “How many people here don’t think their own writing sucks?” I was the only person who raised my hand. Of course, my big ego didn’t match up with my writing skills at the time, because I wasn’t a diehard reader yet. Instead of having high self-esteem, I was arrogant, both of which are two separate things.

As I got older, I realized that being overly arrogant was a terrible approach to writing, because I desperately needed to let my critics into my inner circle in order to get better. That’s when I reached out to Second Draft Critique Services (a subdivision of Writer’s Digest) for help. Of course, their services were quite expensive, so I could only submit short stories. I was nervous at first, but when I actually read their critiques, I was confident that I could make chicken salad out of chicken shit. That’s the difference between arrogance and self-esteem: arrogance means you’re the king of the world and self-esteem means you believe you can grow from anything.

But if it’s true that I don’t have a massively inflated ego anymore, why do I still feel the need to be a perfectionist? I guess the easy answer would be that old habits die hard. Then again, if I didn’t believe in myself at least a little, I wouldn’t be writing in today’s world. I’ve had my fair share of evil criticisms and it would have been easy to give into those people. But being stubborn and full of fire got me through those hard times. Only years later did I realize that positivity and kindness were the answers, not hatred and anger.

So it stands to reason that if I write word vomit as opposed to the perfect product, I would have sufficient self-esteem to believe that I can fix it and make it shine. I’ll grant you that, but consider this: if I write the perfect product, I won’t have nearly as much work to do when the time comes to edit. Editing can either mean a few grammar corrections or a complete overhaul of the story. To make the process less intimidating either way, I take the perfectionist approach to my writing.

I know full well that first drafts will always have mistakes. The current first draft versions of “Watch You Burn” and “Filter Feeder” read like acid trips. While being on drugs may or may not be a heavenly experience (I wouldn’t know), that’s not the feeling I want to give my readers. It may work for Pink Floyd’s music, but not me. I’m not Roger Waters or David Gilmour no matter how hard I try to be.

There’s another thing that I try to practice: not using other artists’ transgressions as excuses to do them myself. I watched Pulp Fiction as a teenager, so my very first movie script “Pumping Filter” had a bunch of swearing, violence, and racial slurs, all of which didn’t need to be there. Because it could never have been perfect, I abandoned the script altogether. Another example would be me listening to Immortal Technique’s music and thinking it’s okay to use homophobic slurs in my poetry. If you want to use creative fuel, make sure you analyze it first and run it through your mental filters. Because I couldn’t do that just yet, many of my hateful poems are no longer in my archives. Thank god.

So now the question of the day is, are you a perfectionist yourself or do you allow your writing to truly be a first draft? I’d love to hear other opinions on this subject whether you agree with me or not. We’ve got ears, say cheers!

***WEEKLY SHORT STORY CONTESTS AND COMPANY***

When my brain finally agrees to cooperate with me, I’ll write something for the “snow man” prompt called “The Theomancer”. It goes like this:

CHARACTERS:

1. Krimson, Red Ninja
2. Yeti, Mummy Giant
3. Seven, Prophet of Sevenism

PROMPT CONFORMITY: There are snowmen all over The Frigid Highlands, each of them with creepy decorations.

SYNOPSIS: The true identity of Krimson is unknown, but he is believed to be an emissary of the Raven Strike Society. They are a secret organization of atheists dedicated to disproving the beliefs of Sevenism, the religion of choice for oppressive authority figures in this dystopian fantasy world. Krimson ventures to the Frigid Highlands to assassinate Yeti, the gatekeeper to Seven’s paradise. The battle between these two warriors is fierce and intense, but Krimson is determined to get answers and revenge from Lord Seven himself. The red ninja is believed to be a deity in human form, which is why he’s having moderate success against Yeti in the first place.

FUN FACT: This story draws inspiration from the Mortal Kombat and WCW franchises from the 1990’s. Krimson is a red palette swap of MK ninjas Sub-Zero and Scorpion while Yeti is the direct theft of a WCW wrestler of the same name. Seven is also taken from a former WCW wrestler, this time one of the alter egos of Dustin Rhodes. All I needed was an excuse to use the title “Theomancer” and now I have a reasonable story idea.

***TWITTER WAR OF THE DAY***

TWITTER TROLL: You’re a professional wrestler. Lift some weights or do sit-ups. Good God!

BARON CORBIN: It’s your girl’s fault. She keeps bringing cookies over late at night.

The Reflection of Perfection

Ian Flagg’s mouth watered at the plate of Indian curry sitting before him and another plate of the spicy treat across from him. Yet, the old man’s sniper sight focus burned a hole through the newspaper he was reading. Besides, he wouldn’t want to get any of that messy food on his clean white dress shirt and silver tie. Accountants of his social status can’t afford to look like that. A waitress came by and refilled his coffee mug, yet Ian never took his eyes away from whatever news story was assaulting his mind.

As soon as the waitress strolled away, a young man with a black ponytail, a green polo shirt, and tan khaki shorts entered the restaurant hunched over with exhaustion and stress. Then and only then did Ian take his eyes off his newspaper. The young man sat across from Ian and hung his head in exhaustion, the scent of the curry doing no favors for his energy level.

“You’re late, son. Is that acting schedule of yours keeping you down? For god’s sake, get some sleep, Payton,” said Ian.

“Sorry, Dad,” said Payton in a slow and medicated voice. “I’m assuming there’s a review of my new movie in that newspaper of yours. I stayed up until midnight reading those goddamn reviews online. What the fuck is wrong with people?”

Ian folded up his newspaper and said, “You can’t fault your critics for feeling the way they do, son. It’s a free country. Everybody’s entitled to their own opinions, even if they are overwhelmingly negative and come from a website about spoiled vegetables.” The father folded his hands across the table and said, “Son, you need to get out of this movie business. It’s not good for you. You can’t take criticism and it’s only going to get worse from here.”

Payton lifted his unshaven face and said, “So what’s the alternative to having my dream job? Doing what you do and crunch numbers all day long? No thanks, I’d rather roll around on a pile of actual rotten tomatoes.”

“Being an accountant sounds boring on the surface, I agree. Hell, most of the comedy movies out there make fun of this idea. But it’s a stable income and you don’t have to worry about where your next meal is coming from. You’re welcome for the curry, by the way,” said Ian.

Payton languidly stirred his fork around in his food and said, “Listen, pops. I spent way too much time and money just to get my acting career of the fucking ground. I’m not going to give up on it just because of some negative assholes online. Shit, man, there’s negativity everywhere I go, so I have to get immune to it sometime. Maybe not right now, but eventually.”

“But that’s the thing, Payton. You don’t get used to harsh criticism. You don’t improve your craft. You don’t get better in life. You feel like this world owes you something and you don’t cash in on that opportunity.” Ian leaned his face closer as if to intensify the seriousness of this conversation. “Payton, you need help. You need to start making some real money so that you don’t have to live like a goddamn bum.”

“So that’s it, huh?” said the actor as he shrugged his shoulders. “One failure and I should just give up on my dreams?”

“We’re not just talking about one failure, son. We’re talking about being universally panned by every critic in the country. I don’t care how good of an actor you are, because nobody can recover from something like that. You wouldn’t have to worry about this kind of thing if you got a math degree and took up accounting like me.”

After a while of glaring in disbelief at his father, Payton stood up, slammed his palms on the table (nearly knocking his curry on the floor), and screamed, “Fuck you, old man! Fuck you! You talk about stable incomes and the world not owing me anything, yet you sit here thinking that I owe you my dreams and my hard work! You’re a conformist! You’re a soul-dead son of a bitch and you want the whole world to be just as boring and sad as you! I don’t care how much money you’re making, because all the money in the world can’t buy you a charismatic personality!”

Ian stood up and slammed his own palms on the table before shouting back, “I’m trying to look after you, you goddamn fool! I don’t want you to end up homeless and begging for handouts! If you keep spiraling out of control like this, you’re going to hit rock bottom and you’re never coming back!”

Some of the restaurant patrons stared at the father-son duo with shock on their faces while others turned heel and walked away altogether. The waitress who filled Ian’s coffee earlier approached him and said, “Excuse me, sir, but the two of you need to calm down or else I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Ian held his palm in the waitress’s face and said, “I’m trying to get through to my idiot son, so if you could stay out of this conversation, that’d be wonderful!”

“Idiot?! You think I’m an idiot because I actually believe in myself?! You think I’m an idiot just because I refuse to give up?! I’d rather be an idiot than a boring piece of shit like you!” shouted Payton.

“This so-called boring piece of shit is alive and well thanks to his steady income, which is more than I can say about a fuck-up like you walking around in those slob clothes! You have a decision to make, young man! Either accept your responsibilities as a grown adult or live like a child and die of starvation! Life may be boring and sad, but it’s not going to change anytime soon just because you like to rebel against the system! The system is in place for a reason, son, because it works!” yelled Ian.

“Hey!” snapped the waitress, who finally found her footing in this conversation after shaking nervously throughout the screaming matches. “I’ve had it up to here with you two scaring away the customers! You can either calm down and eat your lunches or I can get my supervisor and have the two of you blackballed from here! Do you understand me?!”

The father and son slowly sat back down and glared at each other with fiery vision. “You know what?” said Payton as he dug in his shorts for his wallet. “I’m going to go ahead and pay for my meal and leave on my own terms. I don’t have a whole lot of money in my bank account, but not to worry, because that’ll all be fixed once I start crunching numbers in a plain old office. Here, take my goddamn card.”

The waitress eyeballed Payton’s debit card for a while before a small smile formed on her face. “You’re Payton Flagg? The actor?”

“Guilty as charged, though I don’t know if ‘the actor’ fits me anymore,” said Payton in a bummed out voice.

The waitress’s smile grew wider as she said, “You know what? I don’t care what any of those morons on Rotten Tomatoes think. I thought that movie was hilarious. I love dirty humor!”

A look of shocked disbelief formed on Ian’s face while one of surprise formed on Payton’s. The actor said, “Do you really mean that?”

“No, I’m screwing with you. Of course I mean it, you silly goose!” said the waitress with a giggle. “I’m training to become an actress myself. You wouldn’t mind letting me in on some of your connections would you?” The waitress playfully elbowed Payton in the arm.

“I don’t know. My connections aren’t exactly…”

“Come on, Payton, what’s the worst that could happen? You got your foot in the door, didn’t you? That’s more than I can say for myself right now. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be working here. What do you say? Will you hook me up?” said the waitress with a Hollywood smile.

Payton smiled himself and said, “You know what? I think that’s a good idea. I’ll come back here when you get off work and I’ll introduce you to some of my guys.”

“Yes!” squealed the waitress before hugging and thanking Payton repeatedly. It was an awkward hug, but Payton wrapped his arms anyways. He also gave his father a smart-assed wink before the tie-wearing sad sap rested his forehead in his hands. Even though Ian knew his son wasn’t the reflection of perfection, it hurt even more to know he was bested by the little hipster. Blind conformity seemed like a foolish route after all.

Merrill Cody

Of all the things I’ve written back in the early days of my writing career, the one series I’m most ashamed of is Satire of Ruin. If you’ve known me since 2004, you’ve seen this series of movie scripts posted on my Deviant Art account and my old website Macaroni & Ownage Productions.
It revolves around an aspiring screenwriter named Julian Kane who lashes out against everybody who criticizes his work. Sometimes it’s just a screaming fit, other times he actually beats people up. Naturally, Mr. Kane needed somebody to keep his aggression under control. That person is none other than the subject of this blog post, a former detective turned filmmaker, Merrill Cody.

Now that I look back on this little series of mine known as Satire of Ruin, I can appreciate the patience that Merrill had for his pupil Julian. In order to be around an explosive personality such as Julian, Merrill needed to have the patience of a saint. Patience doesn’t come easily for someone who used to make a living by solving crimes and putting crooks behind bars.

Julian might even be a crook for the things he did in my movie scripts. Even though Merrill didn’t necessarily have a badge anymore, he could just as easily take down Julian and make a citizen’s arrest. Merrill didn’t do that. Instead, he gave his pupil some advice when the latter was traumatized from a bout of prison rape: go to India and mediate with the monks. This would either prove to be useful advice or it would be Merrill’s way of saying to Julian, “I’m done with you, you’re someone else’s problem now.” I guess even saintly ex-cops can run out of patience eventually.

So what does Merrill Cody do now? Does he take on another pupil or does he continue his film career alone? The man had his trust broken by a rage-a-holic who can’t take criticism worth a damn. He’s not even sure if he can trust his actors and actresses to put on a good show for his audience. Even the dude who holds the shotgun microphone can be a little suspicious at times.

Is it time to finally retire this character and let him live on the beach for the rest of his life? Or does he have one last burning spark of trust within him to take on another pupil for his filmmaking ventures? Or maybe he’s so bitter by being betrayed that he’ll go back to being a cop just for the sake of putting assholes in jail.

No matter what path I choose for Merrill Cody to take, I hope he can be as wise as his age suggests. I wrote the final installment of Satire of Ruin in 2006, which made me a 21-year-old at the time. I’m well beyond that age now and have a much different worldview. Can I give Merrill Cody one more chance at the spotlight? Can I give any of my Satire of Ruin characters one more chance or are they all beyond redemption? Only time will tell.

　

***LYRICS OF THE DAY***

“You’re like a high school dropout: no class.”

-Fort Minor rapping “High Road”-