Embracing the Dark Side

(A kinda funny, but mostly serious post…because they can’t all be doggos.)

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Ok, one doggo.

It’s very hard to admit this. I try to deny it, to rise above it or work around it, but I’m done lying to myself. I’m done lying to you.

I have succumbed to the Dark Side.

I am only productive when I am angry at something. I need something to focus my loathing, or some other negative trait, on something in order to get anything done. I wrote my first novel because I was pissed at the crap that was getting published by the major companies. I lost 140 pounds because someone said that I couldn’t. I succeed to prove others wrong.

I can’t write out of joy. I have to write out of hate. Only when my heart is full of grit and worms and hot garbage that smells like Manhattan in the middle of a mid-80’s summer can I create anything worthwhile. Otherwise I sit around and do nothing, or worse, have writer’s block.

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And I hate it.

And ironically (or fortunately) that hate of my process, or just regular self-loathing, is what keeps me going. I am never be calm, because writing makes me calm, but I have to be pissed to write. It’s a cycle or hate, satisfaction, and more hate.

But maybe if I embrace it instead of fighting it, maybe that will give me the control to turn it on and off. Instead of falling into the Dark Side, I can control it (oh, and if that isn’t a recipe for disaster cake). Maybe it’s like a football player putting on their game face. I can focus all of my rage into a hat, or maybe a jaunty scarf, and put it on when I need to.

Craig at MNF

(Yes, that is actually me. I’m a Jets fan. No wonder I’m so full of rage.)

A jaunty scarf would be nice.

So I find things and people to be mad at and about. I harp on my own weaknesses and frailties (of which I have many, though I’m apparently very good at hiding them because no one believes me when I say that I’m awful) to fire myself up. I bleed all over the keyboard.

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And I’m sure that I’m not the only one. No wonder so many artists are miserable.

There’s a quote that’s often attributed to Hemingway, Dylan Thomas, Mark Twain, or whoever made the meme feels like giving it to. It goes “write drunk, edit sober.”

I don’t write drunk, I write angry. As for editing, I’m usually calm when I start editing and ready to shoot myself afterwards. Or Force Choke myself.

Ah, the power of the Dark Side.

Wanna see the results of my self-loathing and rage? Check out The Watchmage of Old New York or Song of Simon, not to mention one of the many short stories anthologies or journals you’ll find me in (or old articles from back when I used to write non-fiction). But mostly, the books. Read the damn books. Or don’t, it’s okay. I know that you’re busy, and there’s a lot of great stuff on Netflix.

Look! I even made cute little ads:

The Watchmage Is Coming

SoS Practice Ad 1

 

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Anger Ball

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Ever have one of those days when you’re angry at the world and don’t know why? Of course you have. You’re human…unless you’re not, in which case I politely ask that you don’t anal probe me.

Note: I was going to find a funny anal probe meme…never image search “anal probe.” Ever. EVER!!!!

Today is one of those days. I’m just a great big bloated gassy ball of rage…extra gassy…I’m surprised that Katie hasn’t left me. I could literally drive her away with my methane exhaust (she’s actually very tolerant of it. She’s a fucking saint).

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I’m an anger ball. I love that term. I picked it up from the movie “Playing By Heart,” a pretty good movie that has one of the finest casts every put together. It fits me perfectly today, because I could bounce off of the walls…get it? Like a ball…an anger ball.

So I should be working hard on writing and/or editing, but instead I’m watching Rurouni Kenshin on Netflix (they added Season 3!) between grinding on Diablo III. Part of me wants to drown my rage in egg rolls (not exactly drowning), but I’ll probably be madder at myself later.

Anger ball. It should be a sport. The national pastime. I just have to come up with some rules…I’ll have to get back to you on this.

Stay thirsty…no, don’t. Get a fucking drink. Get me one too.

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