Meth: a Ticking Timebomb Gone Viral

Arm I in Dis Fur Da Muney? Lucki Fur Mie, I'm Knott

In the previous four months, I ingested a lot of meth, and during this time, I didn't write one creative word. In the past two weeks of not using meth, my word count is around three thousand...not including this blog, answering emails and replying to reviews.

It was like this last time I stopped using (even more so)...there's a jam in the system (meth) which causes a backup, and soon after I discontinue using, creativity erupts like a volcano, spewing ideas like lava into my unprepared mind. I haven't a hope of capturing most of them to use in any future work. At best, I will retain a few, if I am quick enough to document them in my diary before the next idea floods my compromised mind.

There were a few unfinished works that sat stagnant, coincidentally for four months, which are my first priority to finish, add the required amount of polish, check and recheck for grammar and flow and release upon the unsuspecting world (or the twenty or so people who might read them over the coming months). I don't write to be popular or in the hope of being discovered and getting a publishing deal...which it turns out, is lucky for me.

I have by now learned that the only way to achieve those things (being discovered, the popularity along with the adulation and incredible book deals) is to either sell my soul to the devil, in which there will be consequences I will later regret. Or sell my soul to a publishing house, in which there will be consequences I will later regret. Or self publish, in the hope that I will, at the very least, get my money back...although the reality with this approach is there will (likely) be consequences I will later regret.

Someone did once warn me that there is no money in creative art, but at that early stage, I didn't even realise that writing WAS art. Nowe dat I am moore edumacated in dis ting wee b callin wrightin, I undastand wat dey waz on abowt.

I write because I love to write, and just because I have given up on the idea of being the next J.K or Clancy or whoever is trending at that time, doesn't mean I have less to say or don't want many people to read my words. Hell, I'd be happy to give away my time...to collaborate, to help a fellow writer pursue their own desires for that which I have forsaken (for a mention on the inside sleeve of their best seller, of course).

I've spoken to one person (thanks Graywriter) who tried to prop up my failing ambitions of ever getting published, but even he only writes articles for magazines and the like (no disrespect intended, and to me, any writer who can make a few bucks from this art is doing better than the other 95% of us who never will). But, as far as writing and publishing a novel or other serious piece of work, it looks like self-publishing or selling that soul is the only way to go...no matter how good the work is.

And, for the sake of being able to tell anyone who cares to listen (party conversation) that I am a published author, when in fact I paid for the privilege myself...thanks, but I'll pass. Perhaps I could just say (like the one that got away) that I NEARLY got published once.

Is this just another sad story, only without the happy ending (which is not my style at all...the happy ending that is)?

Or perhaps it's the story of a writer who gave up before he even tried...because someone once told him 'it was too hard'?

Or maybe, it's the story of a man who simply loved to write, and didn't care much for fame or fortune, only that the words he wrote would be appreciated by those who cared to read them.