A Sadist

Meet Nate Sawyer.

The perfect kid. That is no exaggeration. He really is. So perfect that it made you queasy with envy. The whole package; quite a remarkable specimen. Tall, dark haired, gorgeous, and a body like one of those on the front of a Men’s Health magazine designed to make you self-conscious of your meagre frame. His perfection manifested itself in every wake of life, believe it or not. He was the school jock. He placed in the top three academic performers in the grade. Worst of all? He was insufferably charming and polite. It was impossible to hate the kid, no matter how desperately you wish you did.

Perhaps if you knew more, knew what did…you may just find that hatred.

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A Mask

My name is Guy Garrison.

I am a nobody. Well, nobody I would like to be. Plain, plain as the cruel God above would have me be. Without any special talent. Absent of any remarkable ability. I am not the beating heart of any party. I bring not the light of the rising sun. I am simply here. Insufferably, obnoxiously, here.

I wake up. I accept the sin of life. I pretend for my family. I attend school. I socialise. The last bell rings. I return home. I rest. I wake up. A cycle. A hand on a clock. The notion of routine simply maddening.

There is only one aspect of my life that keeps me sane – if that is appropriate a word to use. It is the fact that I am insane. Surely that is paradoxical! Yet can one be aware of one’s own insanity? Can I know that I am probably – most definitely – mad? Or am I of some modicum of sane thought to examine the possibility that I may be…too sane? Hmm. Super sane.

My head is a cloud. The outside world is vast and senseless. My colleagues and classmates and teachers and friends are nought but an obligation to me. I want something more for myself, but I am not worthy of more. I am flesh. I am moving parts stripped of purpose. I am without identity.

I am only ever whole in the safe, quiet darkness of the night; through one single secret. My sweet, sweet secret, hidden in a pit.

In a man-made hole in my wall, buried beyond my belongings, is a mask.

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Poem: Dark Light

I am extremely close to the next big progress update on my second book, which is absolutely on track to be completed this year. In the mean time I felt in the mood for some more abstract creative writing, and turned back to some of the poetry I used to write in High School.

I thought it would be pretty cool to share a slice of that poetry, even though it’s primitive and, well, teenage level.

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How Poetry Can Improve Creative Flow

I’ve always had a deep love for rhyming. Ask anyone I’m close to and they’d confirm that when I’m in the mood I can go off on rhyming tangents that last minutes, often packed with silliness. When I was really small I used to write poems or little limericks for my parents on their birthdays. As I grew older I privately tried my hand at song writing and eventually poetry, some of which featured in one of my first — and currently shelved — books, Darklight, which is a supernatural story I plan on revisiting some day. It’s tricky to explain in words, which is funny to say as an actual writer, but there’s a creative purity, or unique flow, to poetry that truly can help unlock any closed gates in your mind when searching for some consistency in your art.

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The Worst Part Of Writing A Book

I’ve spoken to a fair few writers in my time. Well, that’s a nice opening line to make yourself sound old. Anyway, it’s fun to discuss the writing process and your individual pros and cons in addition to your actual stories. And during these discussions, over the years, I’ve learned a lot about myself as a writer. I’m sure what I’m about to say will sound familiar.

Years and years ago, I used to say that my barrier to writing, and the thing that I did not enjoy, was finding a way to connect the dots. You know, adding all the “fluff’ and “in between” stuff. I’ve only realised over the past five months that what I had actually been saying at the time, was that I had not yet found a way to enjoy writing itself.

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