And now I have an Instagram. An Instagram, I have. My friend made me one years ago that I never used, and now, I’m using it.
That’s how badly I want to be a writer. I’m using Instagram; A platform I have largely criticized since I discovered it.
The username hendhsalah. I’m still building it, so don’t judge my lack of posting, please.
God I need a drink
I’m such a loser.
I have come to realize that I can no longer handle listening to other people talk about their favorite books. It is 50 shades of aggravating, watching them as they recommend “good” books to each other, not even knowing about the actual gems that exist in the world of written word.
Before I continue, I would just like to say that this is not a post dedicated to trashing 50 Shades of Gray or any other specific pseudo-literary work. Do I have a deep, resounding hatred for said book? Yes, but the rest of humanity has done that onslaught well enough as it is.
It is not subject matters that I find distasteful. Erotica, BDSM, romance, bastardized mythical creatures and the like are just fine to write about. It is the nature and quality of writing of the mass-produced stories that are problematic for me. Do I enjoy any of the aforementioned topics? No, but that doesn’t mean that I would trash something just because it isn’t to my taste.
The issue at hand is simply that we are awarding ingenuity to works that are remarkably subpar and making them a standard to which budding authors feel they must meet in order to get published and recognized. We are allowing ourselves to believe that there is positivity in mediocrity; We no longer care if our children grow up rejecting books of substance, and continuously applaud them when they pick up anything that isn’t computerized–as if written word of any kind is better than a video game.
And more dismal still is that we entertain people who fancy themselves avid readers; who then laud and recommend tawdry creations to others, spreading their disease throughout the land.
But ask them of Seymour Hersh or Kafka. They’ll draw themselves a jolly old blank and look at you as if you yourself are drab. Pick up cooler books, you hag. Up with the times, they’ll say. Don’t read what is dated. Come to our side. We have
Twilight 50 Shades of Gray!
You’ll have to kill me, first.
Lest I be considered a snob, I will say, I do not mind an “easy read” so long as it is well-written and at least a little original in some aspect.
However, no matter how much I wish it weren’t so, a book is a book, no matter how shitty.
Much like a person is a person, no matter how shitty.
No…that can’t be right.
It was the far east living room in which the company came across a woman whom I have never particularly cared for. She was neither pleasant nor unpleasant; nothing more than the brooding kind of person that sits in silence while others fraternize insincerely with each other. Her aloofness was far from attractive—I am not one to judge a woman by her exterior, but Jane was all but the exception to the rule. Her character was dreadfully indiscernible for me to take it into account in my judgments of her, aesthetics and all, and even as she lay on the rug that would surely have to be replaced due to the disgusting havoc that her body had wreaked on the fabric, my idea of her has not changed. She would not be able to compensate the owner for it, as—well, hell—Jane was dead.
She was spread haphazardly on the floor, body finding itself in a state even more unattractive than was its usual. Blood had erupted from a wound that ran from under her breast plate, across her abdomen, curling just above the seam of her pants to cross the left half of her waist. I cannot fathom a reason anyone would wear a breast plate, in this day and age.
Or rather, perhaps one should marvel at why she thought that she were to be in danger at such a tedious affair, and if she feared for her life, what brought her? Masochistic and reckless, she was not.
No one had been brave enough to shut her eyes, and the large brown saucers that took up a nastily large part of her face were empty. They had once been brown. I suppose that this is what must happen upon death, that the eyes lose their color and fade to black. Nonetheless, it could have been that the lighting in the room distorted many a feature. The blood, however, was vibrant against the soft whiteness beneath her.
If I were to be honest, I am certain that, regardless of whom it was that took it upon himself to end her life or how feeble his reason was, this woman deserved the end she came to.
Now, you may find yourself grim about the mouth in rejection of the austerity of my claims, for it is widely believed that no sane person could ever slander a living creature so soon after its decease, but I must say, if Jane abided by no morals in life, then none should be abided by for her in death, either.
You can rest assured, however, that my narrations, which you are now forced to wholly rely on in order to learn the entirety of the truth, will lack the bias I have toward her. Unsympathetic, perhaps I am. A liar, I have never been.
Of course, no one would admit to being prone to telling tall tales, but in my case, I assure you that it is true.
Regardless, you have no choice but to believe me.
The struggle inside of each living creature taking up a vastly underestimated amount of space to coexist with the ignorant and arrogant is war.The struggle to continue breathing despite the choking feeling that is more figuratively painful than physical damage, is war.
The fight between truth and desire to conquer the darkest of times is war.
Violence in politics conceives a superficial consideration. No one cares about the government; their battle is not our battle, and the battle of their people is of minuscule importance to those in power.
In honest and completely unabashed truth, nary a place escapes the label, regardless of its population’s misguided belief in the existence of contemporary effective nationalism, religious freedom and conclusively inauthoritative free speech.
And the fictionally accurate tale that unfolds within the sequential, mildly related, pages of the compilation of my own creations will either be well-written or famous, possibly neither, and unlikely both.
But, at the very least, I will try to manage to escape becoming an attention-seeking sell-out who is celebrated for drivel that caters to an audience with the mindset of a hormonal child trapped in a whimsically unrealistic daydream.
Would that I become a writer to end all writers, a novelist to novelize revolutionary reads, a creator of plot line to be added to the seven, but ah, perchance to dream.
But I do appreciate the stereotypical arrogance that depict me alarmingly un-charming in the previous sentences.
Oh, how the tones of story-telling devolve.