aaron_undead

Following the previous entry, I took some time off from the net (not long, but enough) and I've decided that the opinions of talentless teenagers is just that.

You don't have to like me. You can think my poems are "cliched" if you like. You can even say so in a comment. But when you can't say a normal element of English such as "quotation marks" and instead say "speech marks," be prepared for me to revolt, because to be criticized by someone with such a feeble grasp of the language is my worse pet peeve.

I've pissed off enough people at this point that it no longer matters what you think.

Yes, I have a bit of an ego sometimes, but so do you, you little emo faggot. And oddly, you've got nothing to back it up with.

I am sick of the modern attitude of "I'm awesome just because I exist." NO YOU AREN'T. YOU ARE NOT. When I was your age, I had to earn respect as a writer, and I worked my ass off. I write EVERY DAY. No exceptions.

Your "speech marks" and your stupid kissy face userpic are for the birds, and they speak volumes about your personality. I personally would rather French kiss a toilet than listen to anything you have to say about my "incredibly difficult to read" poem or my "cliched" wording.

FAIL.

Having painted myself in an ugly manner in a community on here, I have decided that I will take a brief hiatus from Livejournal. Or at least posting in communities. I really don't think I need them.

I have no explanation other than someone has recently asked me why I post on livejournal if I'm published... and I think that person is onto something.

However, I do plan to re-emerge in a few months with a new persona, a new style perhaps. Maybe even a new journal. Or maybe not at all.

My career is taking some leaps forward, regardless of what the trolls and slugs of the internet may think of my writing. Anyone who has a problem with my ego may kindly find their way to the door, as there's only room for one.

I may be a douche bag, as a few people have said, but at least I am fully aware of my need to outshine people.

You may like me if you wish. Or you may not. It really makes no difference to me.

I am, perhaps, a bit embarrassed at how impulsively I reacted in my post in this particular community to which I am referring, but when people completely re-write my poetry and then tell me, with a text-emoticon, that "speech marks" are a blessing, they should be aware that I find anything of the sort to be insulting.

Please act intelligent when critiquing me. I am a reactionary person, and text-speak is one thing that sets me off, as is ANY manipulation of my work without my consent, even if it is to show me an example of how to do something properly.

*sigh*

At the moment, I am done.

His tears
Were just on the outside.

Inside was hollow.

There was a rush of cool air
As he entered the house

And the world closed behind him.

*

His thumb and fingers trembled
With the photo between them,

His face wet with regret.

I am a monster, he said to the therapist.

She looked down with him at the boy
In the photo and then at the boy in the chair
Across from her.

She said: we all are.

No, he said, I'm worse than anyone.

I don't think that's true, she said to him,

And he looked up with tears in his eyes.

You weren't there, he said, his eyes far away.

*

He left the house
With blood up to his elbows,

His feet loud on the pavement
All the way home.

He prayed to god that someone
Would stop him,

But no one did.

I will kill you,
She said to him
Through the door.

But he was already dead.
His life spreading wet
Across the wrinkles

In the bed sheet.

The knob began to turn.

Her breathing entered the room.

I know you're in here, she said.

*

Red light
Flickering
Under drawn shades

Illuminate
The shapes of knives
Going into skin.

*

What was that?
Said one bird.

I'm not sure that I know,
Said another.

Well... here's some good news. I officially have five of the thirteen chapters of The Caretakers fleshed out now. We're definitely beyond a bare bones outline.

Now, just so everyone's clear on why this novel is important, here's a summary of what makes The Caretakers the most important thing that I, personally, have written:

The Caretakers is the story of a young man, the main character, who has rented a large house in the country for he and his dying mother, so that she can live out her remaining years in a peaceful setting. They discover, though, that the house is staffed with four dead-looking men who tend to the house and grounds. "The Caretakers" in other words. It becomes apparent also, as his mother's health improves dramatically, that these men are healing her, but also that they are feeding off of him (yes, they are vampires. I was writing this before Twilight ever saw the light of day, and it's ten million times less bullshit than Edward and Bella's teen emo yumfest), but to flee would mean his mother's death. Staying and eventually becoming one of the Caretakers ensures her everlasting life.

Pretty basic gothic horror novel. Classic 1960's gothic romance even. But what sets it apart from other novels like it is the form in which it's written.

I'm writing The Caretakers as poetry, a farther deconstruction from Ray Bradbury's famous stories-as-a-novel format (which I've always admired), which is not to be confused with those awful teen fiction/poetry books with titles that imply cutting and drug use and characters that give fucked up teens a reason to keep being fucked up. This is very mature, very adult writing, full of tense imagery and modeled after the best fiction I've read. I only hope that my work will be worthy of sharing shelf space with my favorite authors one day. To be sold next to Shirley Jackson, Ray Bradbury, Bram Stoker, Mary Shelly, Judy Blume etc. is my dream.

My next novel is undetermined at the moment, but I've got a few ideas. They range from another classic gothic romance/horror novel to painful family drama novel to even a rare idea for a fantasy novel.

In each idea, including The Caretakers, the overall goal and effect of the finished work will, I hope, is to raise the bar by drawing lost readers back into the reading pool with streamlined description that doesn't break the flow of the story, intense images created with as few words as possible, and a plot that plays like a movie for all people, not just those who are over-smart enough to plow through pages of bullshit description and form a coherent image. Reading should not be a chore, and writing should not be a showcase for the author's ability to fill a page.

If you write selfishly, you will likely be your only fan. I'm not saying that the key to success is to write entirely for other people, because that will obviously make anything you write null and void. Writing is a journey that the author embarks upon first and foremost, but in doing so he or she clears a path through a new world for readers to follow. It's your responsibility to decide whether your readers will be awed by the scenery or lost in the turns of the path, or if the whole experience will be so thrilling and realistic that your readers will return to the path over and over like a fond memory.

It isn't as hard as publishers tell you. I have an audience for my poetry whom, if sneak readings indicate correctly, will embrace The Caretakers as the opus of my work so far.

Not that I'm amazing.

But everyone has their favorite writer. I'm just so glad to be able to say that, for a handful of people, I am theirs.

That's how you know you've succeeded. It's not by money or awards or mainstream status. It's how many people are willing to put aside their daily routine for you.

Eventually, it would be nice to be included in English class anthologies, but not until I'm good and ready. After all, I'd like to be a rebel for a while first.

I will keep the whole three people who read this blog posted on the progress of the novel, and remember what I said, lest you need it somehow.

The stairs were littered with his dreams
Like leaves
Dancing and colliding

To the body mess at the bottom
Wearing his name tag.

The door upstairs closes,
and the air is full of his last moments.

His blood pounds
Behind his eyes and

His hand is cold
On the phone.

His stomach is a knot.

*

Layers unfold and
Fibers unwind

To reveal
The heart,
Still beating
On the inside.

*

Phone lines crackling across
Fields and dust and trees,

Brittle bird claws and leaves collecting
On his words.

I love you, he says.

Her mother was waving from the door.

The girl turned and walked away,
Something dark unwinding inside her.

Her fingers made whispers
Against fences as she passed.

I will leave here, after all, she thought.

It gets back into the car

And after a few minutes,

It was able to see through the tears

To drive.

*

I know the way home, it said.

On the highway,

It saw the headlights approaching

And let go of the wheel.

I trust this, it thought,

Just before the impact.

His face
Is an eight by ten
In the living room.

His room is a museum.

Her empty hands
Trace the wallpaper patterns
To start another empty day

In the living room.

*

I miss him, she said.

Her husband sighed.

It's not right, she said, I didn't get to say goodbye.

Nobody gets to say goodbye, he told her.

Her eyes were wet.

*

In the cemetery,
The car waited for it's occupant to return.

The knees connected
With the wet snow and hard earth
And the eyes ran over.

Head against hands against stone,
The small sounds echoing in the open sky.

His lifeline ended
Somewhere over Nevada

When the last engine
Became road noise.

*

She watched it on TV.

He was made a martyr.

Her palms went over her mouth
And her eyes were wet.

The chair fell backward behind her,
Her hand reaching for the phone.

No, no, no, she thought.

*

Somewhere in the plane crash
There was a smoking gun,

And no ash tray.

His scenery was cardboard.

I drew the line in magic marker.

What's this? he asked me.

You may have left me

But I have what matters.

Your heart,

Beating you to death

A hundred miles away

Under my bed

In a bacterial suitcase.

*

I am freedom.
My voice is strong
And silent.

I remember the night
I slipped out of bed
And down the stairs

With your heart in foil,
staining my hands.

I took the Buick and I left you
In the bed
With heartburn.

No one knew where he'd gone.
The house was empty.

Lonely windows like eyes
Looking among the cars and trees.

There is, of course, speculation.
He left the way he came: Suddenly and without warning.

They say he left boxes full of Time magazine.
The porch was stacked with old newspapers.

(The stranger is gone!)

They say he may even be on some distant beach,
Memories cooling behind his eyes.

Your lifeline
Stopped

And your hollow shell
Continued

The string dripping red
Across ice canyons

Bleeding out

All the way down

Painting the rocks red

Your body

Is a snow angel

The red spreading around your head

Like freedom

You ended it
Right in front of me.

Bone and skin
Against tile,

The red spreading
Around your head,

Your warm life reaching
For help

And I ran.

I admit now that I ran.

But I did the right thing.

*

Now I’m standing outside the door
With my bags ready,
Snow around me,

And my eyes are already wet.
But I pick up my things
And I get in the car.

And this car plans to take me

Far away

From where you’ll lie decaying

Until you’re found.

He was born
Of barbed-wire
And pornography

Into my world
For nine months

Long enough to
Reproduce

Then he hopped a semi
Via manhunt.com

And found a new mate
And a new mate
And a new mate
And a new mate

Only to discover
That he had forgotten to
Undo my leash.

My intestines charted his travels.

My insides painted the interstate red.

Leaving a trail
Like a roadmap
To every truck stop
Ever built.

How I felt
Was cold.

My brain full of
An empty,
Ugly longing for you

My insides splayed
On the ground
In a patch of red snow.

Ice and razors and
A new addiction.

Your legs spread
For drugs
And alcohol
And anyone horny enough
To cum inside.

An upset Christmas.
Heartburn.

I knelt at the john,
Vomiting tinsel.

The blood led first out the door
Of Victoria’s house
And into my van, and then

Into the garage.
Then to the gas station down the road.
Then back to the garage.

It pools for a while
On the riding lawn mower,
Then it leads into the house again,

And into the back bedroom, where it
Splits into another blood trail,
Into another bedroom.

This room is covered in blood.
This is where he killed me.
This is where I died.

And he came into the back bedroom,
Blood on his hands,
And he kissed me.

He proposed to me that night,
With a stranger’s cum cooling in his throat.