Hey Vic,

jazzmine-martinez asked: Hey Vic,

What do you do if you write a story, which is full of emotions and those emotions make the story sound good. Then, you lose the feeling for it but the story isn’t finished. How would you try to get the story finished without this feeling which was so important for your writing. It was the first time I wrote like that and now it’s over before it even started. I’d like to finish it but I dont know how. Thanks for reading this. Suzanne

You can’t force it.

Well, maybe some writers can, with experience and all, but if a story is driven by a specific feeling and the feeling is no longer present then there’s nothing for it. That feeling, that emotion, is the story. It is the wellspring from which creation floweth, or something. So I’d say that if you really want to complete the story then you need to rediscover that feeling, whatever it was. You need to get the waters flowing again.

And don’t fret too much about a story remaining incomplete (unless you’re being paid and/or have a deadline). Sometimes it’s wham bam, thank you ma’am; sometimes it’s a long, drawn out courtship, full of twists and emotions and slaps and kisses. The beauty of it is that both can lead to a gratifying result.

This was a good question. Thank you.

She ain’t a goddess, kid.

tumblr_lf1dxc9kiB1qbyqaxo1_500

She ain’t a goddess, kid. She ain’t the Madonna. She’s made of the same stuff you are, flesh and hair, blood and bone. She does graceful things and goofy things and things that’ll piss you off. Do you yourself a favor and bring her down to your level. Don’t waste time worshipping what you ought be relishing.

She ain’t a goddess, kid.

tumblr_lf1dxc9kiB1qbyqaxo1_500

She ain’t a goddess, kid. She ain’t the Madonna. She’s made of the same stuff you are, flesh and hair, blood and bone. She does graceful things and goofy things and things that’ll piss you off. Do you yourself a favor and bring her down to your level. Don’t waste time worshipping what you ought be relishing.

truck stop

I was at a truck stop in the middle of the night waiting for something to explode. A thin woman of ill repute eyeballed me. Her eye was wretched, like the hairless ass of an old street bitch who’d seen too many litters pass through her. While waiting in witless contemplation, I was compelled to approach a handsome gentleman seated at a booth and accompanied by several comely young ladies. I proceeded to strangle him. All he did was turn his handsome face into a bulldog face and bark. His last few hoarse croaks were sickly. I’d say they bubbled. I was then inside a glorious mansion adorned in wild flowers without and arches everywhere within. I sat down on the nearest upturned arch and waited witlessly again until a door opened and someone descended the stairs. She sat beside me on the arch. We proceeded to talk about memes we could create and the miracle of salvia. It would be our religion. A question was asked and when I took too long to respond she said “agaeve absent, screw this” and disappeared.

I read somewhere (alright so it was an episode of Batman because I did not read books until I was in my twenties, and even then) that people can’t read in dreams because dreaming and reading are functions from different hemispheres of the brain. There are limitations even in dreams; you’re a real bastard, universe.

Are you able to quiet your mind?

truck stop

I was at a truck stop in the middle of the night waiting for something to explode. A thin woman of ill repute eyeballed me. Her eye was wretched, like the hairless ass of an old street bitch who’d seen too many litters pass through her. While waiting in witless contemplation, I was compelled to approach a handsome gentleman seated at a booth and accompanied by several comely young ladies. I proceeded to strangle him. All he did was turn his handsome face into a bulldog face and bark. His last few hoarse croaks were sickly. I’d say they bubbled. I was then inside a glorious mansion adorned in wild flowers without and arches everywhere within. I sat down on the nearest upturned arch and waited witlessly again until a door opened and someone descended the stairs. She sat beside me on the arch. We proceeded to talk about memes we could create and the miracle of salvia. It would be our religion. A question was asked and when I took too long to respond she said “agaeve absent, screw this” and disappeared.

I read somewhere (alright so it was an episode of Batman because I did not read books until I was in my twenties, and even then) that people can’t read in dreams because dreaming and reading are functions from different hemispheres of the brain. There are limitations even in dreams; you’re a real bastard, universe.

Are you able to quiet your mind?