writers?

I write in small notebooks. I have a number I've collected, each is unique, and I think I write differently in each of them. I definitely write a lot differently when I'm typing.

 

You're nineteen living in the suburbs with your mom... I'd say nothing has happened interesting enough to warrant a novel from you yet Diton.

 

this is statement is lolworthy and mostly true. but one should never underestimate the power of a wild imagination fitted with a brilliant mind.

 

oh so very true
my friend is 17 and has several novels in the works, vampires, zombies just all of it genius and ive never met someone so creative

 

life experience comes i many different forms, jim. tisk tisk. but, it was funny.

 

I'm just giving him shit because it feels right. And I said 'yet'. I'm helping the boy grow into a man...

 

my favorite kind.

please post

yea that's the truth. i never really found my true 'muse' until after i'd lived in the ghetto, gotten robbed and jacked for money and drugs, lived with crackheads, found my friend dead of an O.D., had my heart broken, and got hit by a bus.


ill post some of my work in a bit

 

I will post, I need to type a lot of shit out anyway.. and I'm excited to read more of your stuff np. It's pretty alright.

 

First of all, your idea that only people with life experience can write a novel is fucking ridiculous. You're saying that people can only write about things if they've experienced them on their own first? That seems like absolute bullshit, and you know it.

And your general air of superiority is fucking annoying. Yeah, you're older than me. Good job, that means that time passed while you existed. Yep, that justifies you being a total douchebag to me because I'm 19. Wait, no, it actually doesn't. It's just some crap that exists only in your own mind to justify you being an absolute ass to other people.

Edit: and just to show how much of an ass you actually seem like "helping me to grow into a man" (btw fuck off with this shit, I didn't ask for nor do I need help living my own life)

frankenstein - mary shelley wrote when she was 18
sense and sensibility - jane austen wrote when she was 18
red badge of courage - crane wrote when 23
the outsiders - hinton was 16
eragon - guy was like 15 i think

 

Art is a cruel mistress. The most brilliant artists are tortured souls who have struggled at every level. They have to create, they don't just want to. I bet that's what makes your writing so good NP.

 

lol diton quit being such a wiener

 

i don't need to take shit from jim every fucking time i post anything.

 

ha jim im not saying im suffering in the least. but ive got a good head start


it provides for good material

 

well i dont want to hear you bitch. go clean your room or something

 

Diton, you shouldn't talk to your elders like that.

 

some bullshit:


Burned down houses speak to me. They tell me their stories.

There was a family that lived in that house, and until recently, were probably unsuspecting of any upcoming events that would change their lives forever. There was bliss. A beautiful moment where your lack the foresight to know that your house is going to burn down because you plugged too many electronics in at once. I can see in my head a family. Mom, dad, the kids, the family dog Spot all around the christmas tree laughing and having a merry time. They do this year after year. Dad gets a raise at the office. He buys more presents for the kids. Little Johnny grows up. Little Sally grows up. Spot gets old and dies. Mom makes Christmas casserole and turkey year after year.


Seeing a burned down house reminds me of the beauty of a fire. Burning logs that flare red hot and shoot sparks into the sky as they crackle and burn. I would often think of the tree that once lived it’s life in the woods, alone and undisturbed. I imagine the tree’s life as pretty peaceful. Up until the day when it is brutally attacked with saws and axes, and felled along with the other trees in the forest.

In the destruction of the log, a new beauty is forged: the flame.

She dances to a new and different song.

 

another bit of bullshit...it's a rough first draft but here it is anyway



The church offered a four year scholarship for good young catholic boys and girls. It was a sweet deal. Free college. All I had to do was be a good catholic. That meant mass every Sunday and holiday. The priest signed my papers at the end of each semester, attesting to the fact that my soul was in fact clean. As pure and white as fresh driven snow. That meant confessionals, communion, the sprinkling of holy water, the kneeling, the standing, and all the rest of those important rituals used to secure my seat in heaven.

Saint Frances was my patron saint. I wear this effigy on my necklace. He is the patron saint of animals. I don’t think the Catholics have a patron saint for binge drinking. Though you would think they would.

Anyways, these people give me money for school each semester.

Tuition, check.

Books, check.

Gas, check.

Rent, check.

Warm Tecate, check.

The fridge is out again. The Tecate is warm. That’s what I’m drinking.

Yep, it was a sweet deal. And boy did I fuck it up. But we’ll get to that later.

Warm Tecate is hard going down.

The sun shines down on me. There’s a group of Mexican kids in the parking lot running in circles and screaming out things in Spanish. I sit on the balcony of my apartment drinking my Tecate and smoking my cigarette. Below me, the grass is green.

Across the street, high school kids are playing soccer in a field. Coaches blow on their whistles and wave their arms in the air. Paul comes out of the door and slumps down next to me with a can of warm Tecate and a smashed up hamburger in one hand, and a joint in the other. ‘Praise Satan!’ he says, holding the joint high in the air. ‘Praise Satan!’ I say in return. His shirt says, ‘This is not a free speech zone’. He tells me there are more burgers inside if I want one, but I politely decline. He takes a massive bite, slopping ketchup all over the front of his shirt.

I turn my attention back to the Mexican kids. They are taking turns riding a pink bicycle with tassles around the parking lot. An older kid hunches his body over the tiny bike as the others watch, their heads turning round and round as he circles them.

‘You know what I just saw on TV?’
‘Light that up.’ I say as I put out my cigarette and flick it into the parking lot.
‘I just saw this show about dinosaurs.’ He catches the end of the joint on fire and puffs away. ‘They say that the chicken is the closest living relative to the T-Rex.’

‘Is that a fact?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know that it’s a fact. I don’t believe it. He puts extra emphasis on the I. ‘I just thought it was interesting.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask him. ‘You don’t believe that chickens are descended from dinosaurs?’

‘Well, not that. It’s just,’ He pauses to take a long drag of the joint before passing it to me. ‘I don’t know, I’m not going to believe in dinosaurs just because they tell me to.’

‘Wait, so you’re telling me you don’t believe in dinosaurs?’ I take a few short puffs and hold it in. I try to screw my face up to accentuate my point but I choke on the smoke and let it out, along with a mouthful of slobber. I wipe my face off. ‘Don’t put your lips all over it’ he says and I wipe the wet joint off on my shirt.

‘We’ve been indoctrinated our whole lives to believe what they want us to believe,’ he says as he takes the joint from my hand. ‘See this weed we’re smoking?’ they tell you that it’s bad and it ruins your life. But you and I both know that it’s total bullshit.’ He paused, taking a swig of Tecate. His face bitters up. ‘This shit doesn’t rot your brain. It makes you think. And that’s what they don’t want. I’m starting to wonder what else are they telling us that isn’t true.’

‘And dinosaurs is the first thing you came up with?’

‘Well, yea it was on tv and I was just sitting there drinking a beer and I had a realization.’

The kids are shouting louder now. Two of the older boys are fighting over the bike. The other kids have formed into a circle, chanting. The two boys start pushing each other. A younger kid seizes the opportunity to steal the bike and ride it off into the parking lot. They all turn to chase him.

I turn my attention back to Paul. The wind blows his hair into his mouth. He spits it out and tucks it behind his ear. The joint in his hand had burned out.

‘So this realization you’ve had...is it like a religious experience or something?’ He looks at me plainly, his red eyes focused on something behind me. ‘Did a spirit come upon you and tell you that dinosaurs weren’t real?’ I ask him as I take the joint from his hand and light it. ‘Yea, maybe so...that would explain some things.’ He looks distantly at the sky. I take a long draw and hold it in. ‘Well, do you believe in dinosaurs or don’t you?’ I ask.

‘I don’t know. Not really...’ his voice trails off.

‘You’re stoned, aren’t you?’ I ask him.

‘...yeah...’ he murmurs before devouring the rest of his hamburger.

I light up another cigarette.
------------------------------------

I sit down in the dark cube. Rays of light dance through the perforated screen between me and the priest. ‘Bless me father for I have sinned.’ I say.

The organ starts to play outside.

‘It has been three weeks since my last confession.’ I say. I can hear Father Chuck breathing on the other side.

‘Tell me of your transgressions, my son.’ He says. He knew it was me sitting in his dark little cube. I’m his prisoner.

I started by telling him about the drinking. I tell him I’ve had a lot to drink this week.

‘I’ve had a lot to drink this week.’ I say.

The light shifts, telling me that he was nodding his head.

‘I passed out in the front yard.’ I say.

He asks me to say Our Father with him, which I do.


Our Father in heaven,
hallowed be your name,
your kingdom come,
your will be done,
on earth as in heaven.
Give us today our daily bread.
Forgive us our sins
as we forgive those who sin against us.
Save us from the time of trial
and deliver us from evil.
[For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours
now and for ever. Amen

The light shifts, telling me that he is making the sign of the cross. The song Helter Skelter plays in my head for some reason.

He prescribes me five Our Fathers, two Hail Mary’s and a Glory Be before he lets me step out of his dark little cube. The bright florescent lights assault my eyes as I make my way to the back row of pews. The image of the crucifix burns into my retinas.
-------------------------
‘Did you pick up any bars?’ I ask Paul, and he tells me the dude was out. I flick my inch-long ash and finish off my Tecate.

 

awwws np. dystopian stuff really isn't my cup of tea. but, i got respect for ya. and your experiences.

but, really i don't think it's necessary to have actual experience to be able to write a masterpiece. things don't have to happen to you. you can make them happen on paper (or screens).

 

thats pretty nifty/awesome. thanks for sharing

 

Really? Brave New World and 1984 were my favorite books back in high school. I'm just starting Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged... I love futuristic dystopian novels/social commentaries.