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Mr.BS

The Writers Block

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Long time no see, guys... It's good to be back. I read The Unfortunate Man. I'm really interested in knowing what happens next. Particularly, her side of the story...

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A few ideas...

 

 

 

Bureaucracy

 

 

I received e-mails

From two people

From the same office

Asking

For the same thing

 

I kept the farce

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:shifty:Failed Artists United FC Memo

 

Failed Park Visit Account #1:

How to look like a retard in front of everyone you know Part I

 

Highlights:

* Lack of info: Helpful or Detrimental?

 

 

How to look like a retard in front of everyone you know Part I

 

I am growing a beard. I am 28 years old. Female. And I am growing a beard.

Funny pics aside, everytime I go to that park I feel like a complete and utter idiot.

For having been there a gazillion times, perhaps?

And being stood up every single time?

Certainly not.

But for still, after all this time and endless convos about how shit the circumstances are, getting off my sorry arse and walking all the way to the park.

Idiot.

And then there's the infamous walk back home, with its bitter aftertaste and general chucking of objects as soon as I enter my tiny room where, just for reference, I've spent the best part of summer.

Spending summer in a box isn't the problem here. Makes no difference.

What pisses me off royally is the stupid notion that today - TODAY!!! - things are about to change and I'll get that orange tan I've always wanted.

But the orange tan never comes and, once again, I stand in the park, chilly wind blowing and all and I feel like shit.

I've got the fucker on my speed dial. And he goes on and on about how that bad trip thing is really getting on his nerves and that unfortunately, regardless of our tear-filled agreement, he aint showin up.

 

Could make an effort and come up with a glorious graphic novel piece, flourishes, abstract angles, endearing characters and awesome visual art. Can't be arsed.

Listening to Portishead does not help.

Priceless.

I could also decide to wear a water flower on my lapel and distribute happiness to other people's children. Like I always do.

Forget about the empty "friends" list. Who needs them, anyway? Right? Right?

Made you smile there.

So come on down! First round's on me!

 

I could also decide that it's time to stop blabbering about my oh-so-sorry-arse to a bunch of strangers, but the empty bottles being hurled at me only make it all much more adorable. Init.

No. I am NOT picking a fight. Just generally pissed off.

My favorite part to play has always been that lonely-figure-on-the-background-that-raises-the-hairs-on-the-back-of-everyone's-head. Just for being in the room. Awesome.

Thanks for the kissles!

As for the park. Work work work. I know damn well that most people who know my work ethic well (or as well as I've invited them to) fear me quite a bit. Charming.

And I understand that that fear is beyond me to solve because it stems from other people.

Don't ask what you already know.

So I'm in trouble. I need a successful "park visit" to make it all worth it. The dark ages I mean.

Isn't it a pain when your own life is beyond your control? Most people would agree. If they knew.

 

So what should I do: a) Sit here and write more shit that nobody understands; b) Feel really sorry for myself, lie down on the floor and cry for three days; c) Attempt communication through other means (and hope that this time the level of understanding of the third party will improve enough to allow a successful visit), or d) Go back to the park?

 

From what I gather, a) is always an option, since people seem to enjoy a silly soap, b) is NOT an option, cos I've done it before and it only adds to the problem, c) is risky and makes me feel really stupid, but I've done it before yet the results bite me in the arse (and it hurts like hell) to this day, and d) is what it is.

 

Redemption? No. Because it's unintelligible.

 

Yes. People have feelings. And it's (supposed to be) a good thing.

Instead, I have a quirky (?) habit of not being able to express myself in a way that human beings understand and to top it all off, paranoia sets in at just about the right time to make me feel (Feel!) like I've done it again and everybody really hates me this time around.

Not that difficult to understand then that my inability to speak on most occasions is a direct result of years in confinement (inside my own head) in possibly the most stressful job position ever attained by yours truly.

That aside, consider the endless interviews, The March itself, destructive criticism, lols, betrayal, more lols, forgiveness, more trips to the park, more trips to the dealership, numbness due to excessive exposure to other peoples shit and excessive exposure of my own shit to other people, the aggro that follows, some peoples apparent inability to separate fact from myth, that creeping feeling of devolving into teenagehood, alarm bells ringing, not finding a soul to have an interesting convo with (even if it's about the weather and especially if there's a storm), the Great Badass Off The Charts Record Breaking Motherfucking Storm itself.

Shall I continue?

 

I feel like a twat. Deservedly.

And I would like to add that all twats have things in common and one of them is a loving heart.

Lols, claps. Goodnight.

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Who am I.

 

I am the person in the crowd, but not.

 

I am the one who is used, and doesnt realise that is not how things work until it is too late.

I am the one who makes the remark, which makes some laugh, some cry.

I am the one who is easy to learn, impossible to master.

 

The one who stayed behind when everyone else went to play.

The one who was always told was 'special'.

The one you see with friends, who let him tag along.

 

I am the one who likes to like, but not to love.

I am the one who sticks to you as long as they can.

I am the one who isnt afraid to speak his mind,

 

but is when you trust him.

 

Who lets the world slide by.

Who likes to dream the impossible dream.

Who believes there is hope when all hope is gone.

 

The Cynic.

The Loyal.

The One Who Got Away.

 

I know who I am.

 

 

Who are you?

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Huh, one of the reasons I worry about my association with fanfic has reared its head again. I don't mind NORMAL fanfic, heck I'll even accept slash [and sometimes read it if it isn't too graphic] but there's some weird people out there...

 

LJ has been suspending people who write/draw situations that involve incest [such as Fred and George Weasley together] or sexual situations with a minor [e.g. 14 year old Harry and Prof Snape] and people are COMPLAINING?! Not complaining that the stuff was there in the first place, but complaining that people are having their freedom of expression taken away! But seriously, wtf? A heck of a lot of them seem to find those sorts of situations a turn on...I'm sorry, but if I had that sort of kink, I'd keep it quiet!

 

I didn't mind Fred and George actually - they do behave like a couple, finishing of each other's sentences and whatnot :LOL:

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I decided to write this because I made a connection:

I've been reading a book entitled CHILD ABUSE TRAUMA Theory and Treatment of the Lasting Effects (physical, sexual and psychological), by John Briere and to quote the foreword:

 

"...comprehensively and eloquently made the case for recognizing that much (if not most) of what we think of as adult psychopathology actually reflects long-term reactions to child abuse."

This thread has a long history (long because it started in 2007) of discussions on the subject.

After reading Oddballs piece I realised that if the book is right, no adult in that position would be able to answer the question "Who am I" unless they got treatment.

Also that because of the grave nature of the trauma most child abuse survivors (the same goes for rape victims, for example) seldom or never ask for help!

I am no expert on the subject, but it takes very little to connect the dots.

And I believe that open discussion (and my intention here is to stimulate discussion. Even if it's not the right thread for it, I'd like to start somewhere) is a means of educating people so that child abuse will one day belong in the past.

The text is self-explanatory and fictitious.

Underneath the text there is a link to the book in case anyone is interested on the subject.

Here goes:

 

 

Case Study #336

 

Patient: Male, thirty something, successful, accomplished, and severely traumatised.

Initial diagnosis: child abuse induced trauma, resulting in abuse-imposed behaviour patterns.

 

Note:

Being of such prominence in his chosen field of work and since he is quite capable of achieving his professional goals, it is quite astonishing to find that he is incapable of establishing a healthy, happy lifestyle.

In his closed circle people seem to believe that because he is accomplished his emotional welfare is not an issue.

Close friends and family members know in detail of his early trauma. Yet, none of them seems to realise that behind that familiar mask there is a traumatised child.

As a former patient I cannot watch silently as his abuse-imposed behaviour patterns develop.

In face of the facts I would like to ask you, kind Doctors, for advice and immediate help!

 

 

Yours sincerely,

Dr. Now

 

 

 

ps.: http://books.google.co.uk/books?hl=en&lr=&id=2iY-9WEwk1kC&oi=fnd&pg=PR9&dq=child+abuse+induced+trauma&ots=svryQ3_Vog&sig=JQKUHaY0KW58NzxxNmTe9ymgA28#v=onepage&q=&f=false

 

:stunned:

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Guest QueenOfNerds

The writers block. Where is this block can I have one?

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This one is to openly admit my eternal love for this thread.

This is where it's at!

It's like having a private mental dustbin, where I can dump all of my frustrations and mediocre literary aspirations!

And the best part is that no-one ever makes any comments, so I'm free to fly!

Thanks to whoever moderates this! Much appreciated!

The thread is MIIINE!!! MWAHAHAHAH!!!

 

*clears throat.

 

 

 

Dear Mr. Bollocks,

 

After careful consideration I have reached the conclusion that my contract is doomed!

I have read and re-read all the clauses and it all fits in perfectly!

I was promised an important and influential position in your organization, Bollocks S.A.

I accepted the offer and subsequently quit my previous job and abandoned my brilliant career in food products and spent several weeks in careful preparation for the initial phase of the project.

I spoke to several members of the project and did what I was hired to do: spoke openly about how I believe the project should be run. I dedicated myself to it entirely!

I was told by several members that my contribution is invaluable! I was confident and very proud of my "achievements".

And now I am told that my presence is no longer needed and that the project will go on without me.

I wonder how, since I am spearheading the whole operation!

I have no intention of threatening you or any project members and if I, in any way, gave you the impression that I would bludgeon you or project members, please consider the importance of metaphors in the grand scheme of things.

Regardless, I would just like to extend my sincere disappointment in you, as project manager.

I will watch from afar as the project crashes and burns.

Thank you for nothing.

 

Miss Now

 

ps.: time bombs!

 

:eek:

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I have an active imagination...and this has come into shape because my best friend JE went through this rubbish. All the best, JE!!

 

 

So let me get this straight.

First, you hurl your bff in my direction, because you fear me like a volcanic eruption.

Then you take it back and tell me that YOU, not HIM, love me very much, and you want to make me yours. Hm. You proposed, told me you even bought a pair of wedding bands!!!

I fell for the trap, dedicated my last breath to this "relationship" and then, all of a sudden, I heard you tell me that, in fact, you remained with your ex and that, while you talked to me on the phone, you had your hands all over HER body!!!

 

*takes deep breaths, since the violence is about to rise from the depths of my disbelief...

 

I told you to piss off, stop calling me, stop following me around, take your sorry carcass and go somewhere far far away from me and live happily ever after (cos I'm nice.).

And then you cried your eyes out, begging me to reconsider and, again, I told you that I held no grudges, but please, please, get the hell out!

You refused, cried some more, and I got so furious that if I did see your sorry arse in front of me again I might just go berserk and, Heavens help me, I might forget myself and do something stupid (this letter should be enough evidence of that).

Still, all of your friends seem to believe that the bitch here is me (not you, oh no!) and so I have to put up with this absurd turn of events and carry on, despite the fact that your lies and betrayal have left me unemployed and without prospects!

 

*deep, deep breaths...

 

So I'll tell you this: even IF I do get my job back and rise from the rubble I would like you to know that our relationship from now on means nothing to me. Like I said, I hold no grudges, but since you have failed the Trust Test you can gather your belongings and take off.

 

Oh! And Merry Christmas!

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Hmm. I feel inspired to write, then start, then begin to struggle right away. I doubt my ability and am SO paranoid about avoiding clichés. Grrr. I am going to read this thread through and see if there are any good tips. :D

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dammit, i hate when i write something and feel really proud of what ive done, but then when i read it back it sounds really shit :( i need to focus more on writing as well. i just dont like having to sit at the computer for a long time.

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Chapter from the story I originally started for my NaNoWriMo (but only got to about 6000 words :$)

Costello Shakespeare was bored. She'd woken up after a disappointing two hour sleep, and her brain felt too sharp to let her go back to it. She felt blindly on the bedside table until her fingertips brushed the flat, smooth plastic of her phone. Shielding her eyes from the bright light, she read the time, "4.37", and dropped it back on the table. A dull ache grew in the back of her stomach, and the pressure of a full bladder made her uncomfortable. She stumbled to the small bathroom next door, and adjusted to the change in blood pressure while sitting on the toilet. She washes her hands in the kitchen sink, filled the kettle, and put bread in the toaster, then grabbed the telly remote from the counter and pushed the on button. There wasn't much on at half two, generally hour-long American adverts for makeup sets or diet plans or collections of CDs that could be paid for in 4 easy payments of just £32.95 a month. She wondered if anyone ever bought any of these, then switched to the BBC news channel instead, letting the stories of wars and murders and budget cuts blare in the background, not really listening, as she buttered the toast and poured the water into her coffee. She sat down on the sofa, spilling a few drops of hot coffee onto her shirt and bare legs.

"Shit" she said, trying to wipe it off with a cushion, and swallowed half the mug of bitter liquid in one mouthful. She mourned the lack of sugar, and added it to the list on the table of things she needed from the shop. A packet of cigarettes lay next to the list, probably left behind by Daniel, and she found her hand edging towards them. Costello had never used lighters; they always seemed to break in her bag or pocket and the fuel would leak everywhere. She preferred matched instead, enjoying running them along the cardboard strip to spark the little blue and yellow flame.

The cigarettes tempted her, but she felt a quiet panic just as she was about to light one, and she threw the match inside the box instead, holding it until the flames began to lick at the corners, then dropping it into the kitchen sink to watch sparks dance on the cold metal, before extinguishing it with tap water and filling the flat with thin grey smoke. Though she smoked occasionally she was determined not to take it up as a habit, and she already felt the beginnings of an addiction creeping in.

As she sat down to drink her second cup of tea, she realised she'd stopped listening to the news, and leaned across the table to switch off the telly. Without the newsreader's voice it wasn't just quiet, but silent, that time in the early morning where everything seems to stop, that she'd called "the Witching Hour" as a child. She listened to her own breathing for a minute or two, before holding her breath to observe the lack of noise. Even silence isn't quite silent; there's always that very faint, indescribable sound that you only hear when there's nothing else to cover it up and that's probably made by the inside of your own head.

She sighed. Bored. She was falling asleep later and waking up earlier every night, kept awake by worries or excess energy or sometimes just nothing at all, then being awoken as soon as the first nightmare ended a few hours later. Even the nightmares were boring, often about losing friends, never finding a job or being back at school, hardly likely to make you wake up screaming, and only the latter had ever caused her to break out in a cold sweat. Part of her longed for the nightmares from her childhood, the ones where she was eaten by sharks or had spells cast on her by witches. The few real nightmares she still had, she almost enjoyed. Wandering through a completely deserted London, or being chased through forests by serial killers or hoards of zombies was at least exciting, a quick thrill that left a small amount of adrenalin in her body when she woke up. Tonight's had been dull, an argument with her ex-flatmate's in which they'd all walked out.

In reality they'd all left on good terms, Ella moving in with her boyfriend, Kate joining her younger sister for a few months of her gap year and Daniel going on tour, playing bass in his daft Indie band. They'd all been fun people to share a flat with, with similar senses of humour that meant they often spent nights just sitting around laughing until the small hours. She'd slept better then, happy and tired enough to drift away easily and keep the nightmares at bay.

She'd been happier then too, less prone to some of the darker thoughts she often had. Recently, she'd been longing for the antidepressants she'd given up over a year ago. There were a few Prozac left in the cupboard, but they were meant for emergencies, just in case her (now thankfully distant and only vaguely remembered) Black Moods returned, and she feel anywhere close to that now. The drugs would often make things worse anyway, leaving her feeling numb and emotionless, like she was empty, or so dizzyingly happy that it terrified her.

It was disappointing to still feel like this. She felt guilty too. There wasn't really anything wrong in her life, no big personal tragedy to bear- two parents, kind, loving, good relationship with; one brother, annoying and brilliant; friends; entertaining, loyal; good course at a good uni, above average intelligence, unusual but not unattractive physical appearance. She struggled to pay the rent occasionally, but that was hardly unusual for a student, and she could always just work extra hours in the shop when it was necessary. Nothing that could justify the days when she was inexplicably tearful or unable to see the point of getting out of bed.

A few years ago it was more understandable: trapped in a dull suburb and often made to feel like an outcast at school, surrounded by people who excluded her only for her higher grades, appearance and ineptitude at sport. Her friends had protected her as much as they could, sitting and walking with her and answering back in her defence whenever people called her names, but they couldn't be around her all the time, and as soon as they were gone the calls of "Freak", or worse, that still rang in her ears would start. Most of them didn't realise what they were doing, only going along with what the more popular teenagers did, or thinking it was only a bit of fun. She never really blamed them for it, but that unfortunately meant she would blame herself, turning her anger towards her own flaws and cursing the fact she was unable to laugh it off.

Undoubtedly, things had improved as soon as she moved to London. She realised, as she'd always hoped, that people in the real world were not like people at school. Her intelligence was mocked because it was envied, not looking like the people around her didn't make her ugly, and people didn't actually care about whether she could play football or not. In uni she was fairly accepted socially, and the few who did seem contemptuous towards her were still civil, and kept their opinions to themselves.

Two weeks after moving, she'd started to come off the antidepressants, realising that they weren't needed any more. There had never been any need to go back to them, but she'd continued to see a councillor, and always kept those few spare boxes of pills. She had undoubtedly improved, but she knew she wasn't better. She still overanalysed everyone's actions towards her, never truly believing that anyone genuinely liked her, had turned down serious offers of dates because she thought they were mocking her, and cringed slightly every time she heard someone call her name, waiting for a torrent of abuse that didn't come any more.

She got up to make another cup of tea, trying to forget about it. She wished she could turn her brain off sometimes, she always thought far too much. Another factor of her depression, though she could never be sure if it was cause or effect. Boredom was another- she often found herself frustrated or upset by how uninteresting the world could be. Being in London helped, surrounded constantly by people, by strangers who's lives would intertwine with hers for a few seconds, before stretching off in another direction leaving her to speculate for the few hours that she remembered them. There were also her friends, from school or uni, but many of them had gone home to their parents houses during the break between terms, and she didn't organise to meet those who stayed as often as either would like, as she worried about seeming needy. There wasn't much to be done alone when you had to be careful with money and resisted taking drugs due to a mental illness and what had happened during previous experiences. She walked a lot, mainly at night when she couldn't sleep, enjoying the quiet and the glow of the streetlights, though she always felt a pang if sadness whenever she looked up at the blank sky, wishing the stars weren't blocked by light pollution.

Hadn't he said something about that? She couldn't remember now. He'd been interesting, the strange man with no memories. She hoped he was alright once he got to the hospital, that they'd found out who he was and given him back to his family, if he did have one. He didn't really seem like the type to settle down though, too adventurous, too keen to have fun, and he might have been too young anyway.

The kettle clicked, the water had boiled. She poured it into her mug and sipped, then went back to her room to check the time. 5.17. What day was it? Wednesday. She had the early shift on Wednesday, 6 till 11. Better get dressed

Edited by Chocolate E. Clare

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[generic double post apology/]

 

Reading it back now I'm worried it sounds too autobiographical :$ anyone who's read my posts in the depression thread will know what I mean, some of the stuff about depression sounds a bit like my posts in there. And I still can't seem to get my description of those feelings right, which Is annoying cause I feel like it's important. Grr.

 

(feedback appreciated, etc :D)

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:( I wish I had some sort of artistic talent! I like writing, but I usually can never get past the characters. I can never develop some plot and my creativeness in relationships is completely lacking. For example, I wrote this right now for no reason whatsoever:

 

 

Cliff spent on average 17 minutes every morning preparing himself for the day. The alarm would go off at 5:21 am so that he could hit the snooze button once and be up at 5:30 exactly. He spent those nine minutes reciting to himself all the things he had to remember to do that day. “Wash car. Buy batteries. Call mom. Clean closet.” Most days he would glance at the clock impatiently, and it would read at 5:29 and he would run through his list as quickly as he could a few more times. The glaring drone would break his inner monologue and he would leap from his bed, turning the alarm off before it rang more than twice.

Cliff spent the next two minutes staring at himself in the mirror. He described his features in plain terms (“dark blue eyes, wide mouth, teeth are okay, big ears, brown hair”) then viewed his own naked body in the full length mirror and described it in the same way (“skinny, tall. Long legs. Big hands, big feet. Small nipples. Wide shoulders).

It took him less than a minute to get fully dressed (he got dressed as if there was a fire in the house) and another minute to brush his teeth and clatter down the stairs to the kitchen. Cliff did not eat breakfast at his kitchen table. He did not like the idea of food inside his home. He could not explain why.

Cliff’s remaining 4 minutes were spent at the front door. He stood, his hand a mere two inches from the doorknob, poised to leave the house like any other person. Those minutes were when Cliff reminded himself that he was a different person than before. He read the same type of monologue as before, except this time, his agenda was more urgent. “Don’t kill anyone. Don’t kill anyone. Don’t kill anyone.”

 

 

 

other than these sorts of pieces of trash, my "writing" is nothing :indiff: I don't know how to be able to put the whole story together. I've had a ton of ideas, but I guess I'm just not a writer :(

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"Refraction"

 

When a wave makes contact

with the surface of a medium,

the result of the interaction

alters the wave's velocity

and causes refraction,

but the frequency of the wave

remains the same,

despite the partial reflection.

 

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I need a moment to feel your warmth

Your heart it beats in tune with mine

You know you stood the test of time

A tidal wave of equal force

meets mine at it's peak

 

I long to feel you nearer to me

reaching out for loves sake

No matter the recourse

I want you here

I need, I need

to feel you near

 

Listen to my heart

as it skips a beat

listen to the music

As we move our feet

1 and 2 and 3 and 4...

I need to feel you, Oh

all the more

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