Sometimes life shits on your heart. 

People will read longer pieces on Tumblr. I’m not going to lie and say that I believe most readers on Tumblr have the time or inclination to read a piece over 1200 words via their dashboard, but I’m also tired of people accusing the Tumblr audience of “never” having the patience for long pieces.

I’ll be honest, even I skip over some of the longer pieces. I can’t speak for everyone, but here’s the number one reason and it has to do with formatting, no matter how good I think the “quality” of the writing is:

Wall of death text

There is a world of difference between formatting for print and formatting for digital consumption. This has to do with eye strain.

Lack of white space can REALLY make your eyes hurt when you’re reading off of a computer screen. 

This is why it’s vital — especially if you’re going to post a longer piece — to break paragraphs down into smaller, easier to read chunks. Big blocks of text begin to blur together after a certain point in reading. 

It’s so distracting that it makes it a struggle to focus any of my attention on the actual writing. 

The same goes for funky experimental formatting: ALL CAPS. All bold. All italics.

The absolute worst is a huge block of text with no punctuation.

True, there are always exceptions, but if you’re trying to coax an audience into reading you (which I’m fairly certain the people who curse because “no one reads” their long work are), at least meet them half way and format for their reading comfort. 

If you choose to format your writing in such a way that it makes reading your work a chore — more power to you — but please be realistic with your expectations about the anticipated response to or projected popularity of the piece.

I love my online persona. Seriously. I like people think I’m a literary ninja or femme fatale who wants to fight or fuck the entire world.

“And when there is no hope, I smoke some crack; I shoot some dope. When there’s no enemies I’ll sit and stare at my TV…”

In the summer, during the day, this city feels like hell. It’s an existential sardine can filled with the writhing, sweaty bodies of the damned. Packed in shoulder to shoulder, stacked one on top of another just choking down each other’s stench. Public transportation is the river of lost souls. Except we’re not being quickly herded into the deep and the black of Hades. We’re traveling at the speed of ants burning slowly under a magnifying glass, right into the center of the fucking sun. 

At night the city becomes a vampire, humidity sinking into your flesh like a pair of fangs, sucking the fight out of you. Every living room is a cemetery, inhibited by zombies. The television set is a voodoo priest, commanding mindless, drooling hordes of the walking dead. Every bed is a grave, haunted by the lonely, sexually frustrated spirits of the single — rotting alone, for what feels like eternity. 

After dark. the streets are a special kind of limbo. Where the ghosts of what used to be decent people wander the earth. Every white light turns out to be a neon sign, flickering like a candle at the entrance of a tomb. Into the belly of the beast, where there’s a million earthly pleasures spread like an all you can eat buffet, but once you have a taste there’s no way to go back. Whatever you consume holds a grudge and eventually, if give half the chance, it will clamp its savage little teeth in and consume you. 

During the day, this city is a dog and pony show. A spectacle of artificial intelligence and rigid code. An efficient machine designed to transition the living into the dead. The smiles are plastic. The odds are set. There’s no beating the house. You cash in your chips when they tell you to. There’s no beating death.

At night, it’s a dog eat dog world. Meat is meat. No rules; no clemency. An amoral playground where anything can happen, and “anything” usually means a rough fuck with the tip of a knife blade. The smiles are gashes in throats from ear to ear. The outcome is fuzzy. The house is burning and no one has the attention span to even piss on the flames. You lie, and cheat, and steal to make a buck; to live another day…

But at least there’s no gods or managers looking over your shoulder. 

I love this city because it proves that dead men do tell tales…

It’s the never ending story about how any intelligent life in the universe has turned its back on us. Humanity is like a helpless dog, locked in a hot car, who doesn’t even have the energy to lick its own balls anymore. 

I used to describe my dad a a Woody Allen type, which was perfect until Woody Allen fucked that up for me. I didn’t want to have to add, “except he’s not trying to sleep with me.”

Today is Father’s Day and my father’s birthday. He’s 70 today. As Freudian as this sounds, he will always be the most influential man in my life. He will always be the person who upsets and annoys me the most. He wasn’t a great dad, I have a lot of reasons to resent him, but he’s getting so old and I’d rather spend the rest of the years I have with him in my life beng grateful, not bitter. I love my dad very much.

Did you know there’s a better, more satisfying way to vent your frustration about “bad” writing, that also feeds our writing community in a positive way?

It’s called: Write something better. 

In the time it takes to sulk and then write nasty anon messages, you could be writing something better. 

Hate everything you see on your dash?

Write something better. 

I’ve read several posts over the last few days that have asked: What the hell is a writer’s voice anyway?

Wait, isn’t this just a pretentious phrase people use when they’re trying to sound like they know something about writing? The answer is: well, sometimes. But, I think it’s a valid concept. 

Your writer’s voice is essentially the unique blend of your vocabulary  phrasing, syntax, flow (often manipulated with punctuation and formatting), aesthetics, and style (including themes, motifs, character development, how you push the narrative forward, genre, etc.) All of these elements combine to give your writing a personalized quality to it. it’s not just what you write, it’s how you write. 

Also, on a deeper level, it’s the aspect of your writing that is the essence of you that shines through, no matter what you’re writing about. It’s your point of view (even when you’re filtering it through characters). It’s your signature. 

It’s the reason why a million writers can write about the exact same topics, but we can still create a million variations — no matter how subtle the differences. 

Your voice is what sets you apart. It’s the one purely original thing you can share as a writer.  I think this is why it’s vital to develop. This is not to say you shouldn’t push past your comfort zones, or that you should limit yourself to a certain topic/style. But somehow you have to find a way to make whatever you write “yours”. Otherwise, there’s no reason to go looking for it. There are already tons of other writers who have probably already written about what you were going to write about anyway.

Your voice is what makes the difference. 

Everything has been written before… but not by you. 

Jeremy took a deep breath as he stared at the apartment door infront of him. His life was about to change. It was hard to believe that he had gone from being the dorky kid in school — who had been repeatedly trapped in his locker by bullies — to standing on the threshold of becoming one of the masters of the universe. This was the determining moment of his existence. The most profound thing that would ever happen to him. This opportunity to learn from the most powerful magicians still residing on this plane of reality…

The door opened. An old black woman stood in the doorway. Her face was so wrinkled it sort of reminded him of a prune. She was supporting most of her weight, which couldn’t have been more than ninety pounds, with the aid of a walker. It was a gaudy looking metal frame with its front prongs fitted into neon yellow-green tennis balls. She was so frail looking that Jeremy was almost afraid to breathe too hard, in fear that a sharp exhale could snap her in half. She was almost half way there on her own accord. Judging by her crooked posture, her spine was collapsing in on itself. 

“Well hello, young man.” The old lady smiled politely, but her eyes seemed to narrow in a critical fashion. Jeremy got the feeling that she was sizing him up.

He checked the crumpled piece of paper. 93, he read the number again before glancing back up at the door. 93, in big, black numbers. 

“You must be Jeremy. I’m Betsy. Everyone is waiting to meet you.” She didn’t bother to escort him inside. He followed the woman as she moved slowly down the hall and into the living room area. There was a circle of two sofas and a recliner chair around a large table. There was also an assortment of fabric and sewing tools. A group of seniors were gathered around the table, each one working on a project.

Jeremy recognized the squares as quilt patches. His grandmother, before she passed away, had been an accomplished quilter. She had offered to teach him, but at thirteen he had been more interested in nu metal than old school comforters. Thankfully he was seventeen now and had since discovered Punk and Thrash…

“Let me introduce everyone.” Betsy said without looking back at him.

She motioned to a plump Asian woman, probably in her seventies wearing a small pair of reading glasses. “Agnes.” Then, she worked her way counter-clockwise around the circle.

A lady — despite the Adam’s apple — of mixed race. Her gray hair was set in rollers. “Mimi.”

An older latino genteman, by far the youngest of the group, around sixty years old. He was still quite muscular, though he had a bit of a beer gut, with a visible tattoo of a gay pride flag on his neck. “Sebastian.”

Jeremy, who looked bewildered with a semi slack-jawed expression on his face, nodded. Without thinking he blurted out, “I think I’m in the wrong place. I don’t think this is where I’m supposed to be…”

“You should adjust your perspective on where you’re supposed to be. Problem solved… and what on earth are you wearing, young man?” Mimi cut in.

Agnes, who was sharing a sofa with her, nudged her with an elbow. “Oh hush, Mimi.” Though she did laugh when she took a moment to look Jeremy over. He was wearing a leather trench coat, ripped black jeans, and a pair of combat boots.

“What? You don’t have that same outfit in your closet, Mimi? Sebastian teased.

“Oh you beast…” Mimi threw one of the sofa pillows at him.

“IT’S JUST…” Jeremy hadn’t meant to say it so loudly, interrupting their banter, “I expected to see a room full of heterosexual white men doing, you know… magickal stuff.”

The room went silent. 

“He’s not very perceptive, is he?” Sebastian said shaking his head.

“Honest though.” Agnes responded quickly.

“Funny.” Mimi smirked. 

“Now, leave the boy alone.” Betsy made a tsk-tsk motion with her fingers. “Don’t pay any attention to their teasing. They’re just poking at the tiger’s cage. I swear, it’s enough to make a person explode.” She pursed her lips looking awfully serious, but only for a moment as she mumbled to the others, “Remember what happened to the last one.”

The room fell silent again. 

“Honey, why don’t you sit down next to Sebastian and I’ll get you a cup of tea. Are you hungry? We’ve got sandwiches in the kitchen.” Betsy gave Jeremy a nudge towards the sofas. It was surprisingly forceful for someone with a body so slight. 

Jeremy, still looking a bit dazed, made his way over to Sebastian. The boy noticed that there was a faint indentation in the cushion next to the older man. Jeremy didn’t know why, but his eyes teared up instantly. 

Sebastian, who noticed this reflexive reaction, called into the kitchen. “I was wrong. He’s got good eyes.” Then, he turned his attention to Jeremy. “It’s alright kid, have a seat.” 

The old guy handed over the square of fabric he had been embellishing. “Here. Finish sewing this for me.”

“I don’t know how to sew.” Jeremy said, sounding a bit more shy than he wanted. 

“Now, you’re learning.” Sebastian answered. He showed the younger man a few basics.

By the time Betsy came back from the kitchen, Jeremy had finished what was left of the quilt patch. It looked almost like an abstract pattern at first, but the oranges, reds, and yellows hinted that what he had been sewing were flames.

“Dear, would you be kind enough to push that table to the side of the room? We’re going to put all of the pieces together now.” Agnes asked in a sweet voice…

A half an hour later, the quilt was finished. It was placed in the middle of the room, where the table had been. 

Jeremy made a face. “This is a bit… morbid? What is this supposed to be?”

“You really should stop using that word…” Mimi scrunched her nose. 

“Do you need some more tea, hon?” Betsy was already filling his cup before he could answer…

A couple of hours later and Jeremy was bored out of his skull. His elders had spent the entire afternoon selecting the color scheme for the new quilt they were planning to start tomorrow. 

Jeremy stood up. “It’s getting sort of late… guess I should go.”

“Oh? Well, if you must dear. But hold on one moment, alright? Could you do this old lady a favor and turn on the television for me?” Betsy smiled.

“Yeah, Sure.” Jeremy had never seen a set so old. There was no remote control. You actually had to flip it on manually. 

“Channel 9.” Betsy requested.

“Thanks, Jim. I’m standing outside of what used to be Global Bank’s corporate headquarters. There’s no official word on what caused the fire…”

Jeremy’s mouth fell open. His eyes took a moment to go from the television screen, to the quilt in the middle of the room, and back to the television.

“Did you… You guys did this? Didn’t you?” He pointed to the screen. “With this?!” He pointed at the quilt. 

“You mean We, dear.” Betsy took a sip of tea. “Oh. Did you have someplace else you wanted to be?”

“Fuck no!” Jeremy blushed. “I mean, no ma’am… I mean, fuck! I’m not going anywhere!” He rushed to sit back down.

Sebastian patted him on the shoulder. “Hey, I like this kid! Let’s not get this one blown up, okay?

Jeremy’s face turned white. “Huh?”

“It’s a long story. I better put another kettle on.” Betsy, once again, disappeared into the kitchen. 

- Have an idea

- Spend hours (even days or weeks or months) loitering on the internet, eating snacks, reading comics, writing other things, masturbating, smoking, sleeping…

- Type story in 30 minutes or less.

- Spend the next couple of hours discovering annoying typos… after it’s already been reblogged.

-  Facepalm (repeat this step as necessary.)

One day I saw a gloomy boy stretched out, belly down, on a set of rusty train tracks. 
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Do you need help?”
“Please go away. I’m trying to die alone.”
“This could take a while.” I said, as I sat down on the ground next to him.
“Huh?”
“The train stopped coming through here years ago.”
“Arrrggghhh.” He half moaned. “It figures.”
“I suppose you could still die of dehydration or exposure. Can I stay until you feel like your soul is ready to depart?”
He lifted his head staring at me incredulously. 
“You’re sort of a freak, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Totally.” I smiled. 
Then, I giggled because his stomach growled. It sounded like a wild beast.
“Can I treat you to a last meal before you settle in for the long dirt nap?”
“Yeah.” He signed, “I guess. I’m getting kind of bored anyway.”
He got up with a slight huff. I could tell this guy had been born with a storm cloud over his head. I could almost feel its shadow sucking up the sunlight around me. It sort of made me feel weak in the knees. Yeah. I’ve always had a thing for sulky boys. 

“Oh my god! You stabbed me. Why did you stab me?”

“I think I’m in love with you. Or at the very least intensely infatuated.”

“So you stabbed me?!”

“I just don’t have time to sit around fantasizing about you, agonizing over the fact that we’re never going to be a thing.”

“So you stabbed me?!”

“Oh yeah. You’ve definitely got to die”