He Makes Art War Published

Hey everybody, the way cool folks over at Hobo Camp Review picked up my oldie-but-goodie, “He Makes Art War,” for their spring issue. Check it out! 

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Running to Stand Still

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Blade Runner 2049 movie poster

That’s a U2 song. 10 points if you got it.

I’m…here. Surviving. Trying. I guess.

I’ve had a tough time battling my Depression and Anxiety, and there have been some pretty sad family issues over the past few months. I haven’t written much. But those aren’t really the reasons I haven’t picked up the pen… I feel pretty worthless as far as being a writer goes.

I keep reading stuff by other [better] writers and getting rejection letters, so my self-esteem is pretty much at the bottom of the barrel right now. All I want to do is tell stories, you know. Save people. All this is such a broken record if you’ve followed this blog…

I finally saw Blade Runner 2049 the other night. The original Blade Runner is one of my favorite movies of all time. This sequel is right up at the top of the list now, too. I don’t know; I watch stuff or listen to music and it does something to my brain and my heart that makes me want to try again–try telling my stories again, I mean. You put that soundtrack and story together and well, I guess I am inspired again. I am now inspired to work on my sci-fi novel and maybe even some short sci-fi pieces.

But it’s in a sad sort of way. Like, “what’s the point?” I know they’ll make me happy to write, but half the reason I write is to bring joy to other people. And at the rate I’m going, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that at the level I want to. I’m losing faith in myself, I guess. Or maybe I’m just ultra-depressed right now.

I have lots of short stories out at mags and I’m still waiting to hear back on the Novel That Will Get Me Published at the newest pub. company I sent it to. It’s only been 3 months, so I probably have some more waiting to go.

Anyway, I guess I’m off to dream.

Writers are Alcoholics

Writers are Alcoholics
JCD Kerwin

Writers are alcoholics.
We drink India ink and
eat coffee grounds for breakfast.

We sit in bars,
lamenting regrets
and chasing memories.

Our eyes are bloodshot
from looking for answers
on typewriters.

We are invincible,
shielding ourselves with words
and wielding pens like swords.

Writers are alcoholics.
We get drunk of existence
and regurgitate Heaven.