Pen hits paper. Ink spreads like a fire in the dry California Hills as a once clean sheet is now littered with my thoughts.
I don’t care about being popular, and have no concern for how this will be received; I know who I am and love what I do. I don’t get writers block because I don’t chase praise – a mistake most writers make.
Why did it start? Who is she? And why write so much about nails, legs and perfume? The most common questions I get, ironically, the only ones I don’t have an answer for.
I revel in the fact that ‘good’ is no longer good enough. We are so bombarded with ‘average’ that ‘great’ is easily missed. To be an artist worth remembering, you need to be something more. You must have a swaggering, a style, the fucking chutzpah to bring the world to its knees.
That’s why Sinatra is a king, Bowie is a god, and Bukowski is an icon.Trends come and go – authenticity always remains.
I am fucking begging you: believe, express, and show who you are. Don’t be another entertainment reporter, because they are all the same. There is no art in talking about what others have done. Art comes from being just a little something more. Art doesn’t need a brush, pen, or ballet slipper. Art happens when you do what you do best, with such style that it captivates the minds of all who witness it. You know when someone is great; nothing needs to be said.
Read my words. Run them over and over again through your head. They’re all I have, they’re all I need. Take everything from me and leave me for dead, but please, never take these words because without them, I have nothing; I’m lost, I don’t exist.
You don’t go to school to be a writer – you either are one, or you’re not. No class, no lecture, no expert on the subject can teach you how to do this right. It’s in you or it’s not. It’s not something you pick up to sound cool, or something you do to prove how smart you are. You write because since the moment you fell in love with the beauty of a perfectly written sentence, something inside you said you could do it better.
The disingenuous are transparent, empty and flawed. Then again, I suppose those words could describe me. For those who understand, this blog is nothing but old news, gospel from another time. Our bond is unspoken. We both understand what it means to have a brave heart, one that has no fear of being alone, for emptiness is the well from where all great creative fills the bucket that quenches the thirst of those needing to be entertained, but have no clue what that means.
“My dear,
Find what you love and let it kill you.
Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
~ Falsely yours”
― Charles Bukowski
Find what you love and let it kill you.
Let it drain you of your all. Let it cling onto your back and weigh you down into eventual nothingness.
Let it kill you and let it devour your remains.
For all things will kill you, both slowly and fastly, but it’s much better to be killed by a lover.
~ Falsely yours”
― Charles Bukowski
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