Sticks and stones.

May break my break my bones but words will never hurt me.  The pen is mightier than the sword.  So which is it?  Do words have power or don’t they?  Should an author type a word, that fits beautifully with a character?  Or should they be responsible and censor themselves so they don’t hurt anyone?

When is it okay to say, what ever word?

For me personally, the F word, not rhymes with duck, is a biggy.  It’s like nails on a chalk board and I refuse to listen to music with that word in it.  I hope I’m not unique in this.  The word maybe different but there are certain ones that just bother the lizard part of your brain.

But, I’m a hypocrite.  If it appears in a truly amazing book, I’ll keep reading.  In Andrea Speed’s Infected series, Roan, is called it on several occasions.  Not only is he gay but he is also a feline shifter.  Kitty F*g.  It bothers me but I can see his strength of character and his humor in how he deals with it.

I don’t know how many female protagonists have been called B!tch and that doesn’t bother me either.  Maybe it’s because I’m male?  I don’t know.

So, when is it okay to use words that someone will be offended by?  To make a point?  To show a characters isolation?  Isn’t there a hundred other ways to do that?  You have roughly 80,000 words to show their isolation or make your point.

I guess it’s just something I have been thinking about a lot more lately.  I worked at a gas station and if you want to be called names you have never had the opportunity to be called before, work at a gas station.  Customers will not hold back.

I’ve been called: F*g, bitch, asshole, (all the standard ones) and Honkie.

I actually thanked the gentleman who called me that.  It was new, in my twenty almost one years of life no one has ever called me a honkie.  Cracker, sure, but cracker always struck me as odd/pitiful.  The only thing I can think of that would be less offensive is Chip.  Crackers are delicious and insanely useful in cooking.

N***** just means ignorant.  That can never be taken in a good way.

And I have seen authors use it too.  Their eyes were watching god.  That book they make you read in high school with the surprisingly crappy Halle Berry movie.

They read and show the movie in school, yet sex is hidden and made something OTHER.  I don’t get it.

So when is it okay for you to use these words?  I haven’t the foggiest.  Honestly.  And you could say that you aren’t using it, your characters are, but that’s a cop out.  You created your imaginary friends and you gave them the personality and place to use the words.

Words have power and I am personally going to try very hard to remember that.  If I have a character, who for some reason, uses whatever word, it will be for a better reason than quickly showing isolation or strength.

Though at the same token, if my imaginary friends (Like myself) cuss like a sailor, I won’t stop them.  Fu(kin $#!+, I hope that made some d@mn sense.

And peace on earth.


Would you keep Reading?

The sixteenth of November is the hardest day of the year.  Penny vanishes and leaves me all alone.  She can’t deal with the day any better than I can, but she can hide better.

How sad is it that the shattered pieces of yourself have to protect themselves from something in your past?

I haven’t slept in two days.  I won’t sleep today either.  I should have been better, I should have been smarter, I should have stopped him.

The phone rang and I threw it against the wall. The battery flew one way and the phone flew the other.

Today I cried.  Today I lay curled up on the floor in his hoodie and I let the darkness take me.  There were no nightmares to paint, no one else in the world.  Just me, alone.


I flinched.  “Not real.”

“I’m not?  Or your not?”

I smelled decay.  It coated the back of my throat and seeped into my pores.  “You’re not.”

“Samuel, is that any way to speak to your creator?”  The Father laughed.

“Tried to break us.  He created us.”  I pulled the hood over my head, rolled over and nibbled on cold ramen.

“I am the reason you have magic, power.”

“You are nothing.  Not anymore.  You can’t hurt us anymore.”  A while later, I rolled back over, I couldn’t smell the Father anymore.

Alone, again.

Writery stuff. Readery stuff. Aftermath.

So, right now I am working on a couple manuscripts, I’ll probably post a chunk of them tomorrow.   I read a post about depression and how it makes it hard to do things.  I understand, with one exception, I always write from a dark place, the more I want to just…  Well anyways, I write best when I can’t see the keyboard through tears.

I don’t know if anyone else has read Andrea Speed’s Infected series.  Book three will make you want to smack anyone who smiles for like a week.

She is a beautiful writer and so very good with words.  Obviously I am not.  The blog posts are probably first drafty and I am actually okay with that.  I’m just talking to myself mostly anyways.

I had twenty seven cigarettes today.  Had thirty yesterday so I am doing pretty good.  My sister is one of my best friends and she is concerned about me.

“Hey, Have I told you lately that I love you? I think you are one of the bravest giving passionate creative person that I have ever had in my life.”-Sister2

The only other male at my work place, hit on me today.  I’m not entirely sure if he was serious.  I’m kind of hoping he wasn’t.  He’s to good for me.  Like A&F could use him as a model.  I’m twig thin and lacking in every muscle group.

I’ve been wondering a lot lately what makes someone mature?  Is it age? Attitude?  What?

Also what makes someone brave? What is the difference between stupid and brave and why?

Also, also, (terrible grammar) How long is it okay to grieve?  Is there a time limit and are there healthy ways to deal with it?

Even MORE also, is punching the mother of a dead friend appropriate grieving?  And before there are confused angry “hell no’s!”  Let me just explain that I am not a violent person, to others, except verbally occasionally.  She asked me why I had to make him gay.

At his funereal.

I’m not religious, but I felt like saying what I wanted to in front of a priest was kind of wrong.

I really just wanted to scream “Gay is something you are or your not!  Bitch is a choice you have so clearly made.  He is dead and you still can’t love him.  He was beautiful.  A light in this shit hole of a world and you couldn’t see it through the eighty layers of make up you slather on your face.  Your his mother.  You were his mother, where’s the unconditional love your supposed to have for the child that grew inside of your gapping whore vag?”

I wish she was a character in a book, preferably the main character so she might make sense to me.

One song stuck in my emo head today, Bad bad day- P!nk.

I’ve had a bad bad day but who gives a shit.  Could be sad all day but I don’t feel like it!