work, writing

Update

I’ve been setting up 51R which turned out to be a larger piece of work than expected.

It is much better and I am excited to share some of it with you in the near future.

There’s been some deep work with the writing and it’s been good so far. It’s a time of transition, which is reflected in the work I am doing.

Change is coming, and I couldn’t be happier.

I’m on Twitter as @mbblissett

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creative writing, work, writing

Want some help with your writing ideas and concepts?

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masculinity, poetry, purpose, work

much beyond sleep

Smile in the quiet

Up late,

Writing to alleviate

The constant hum of

Purpose

Only I hear it

The song, thick and low,

Like wine in my veins

More achieved,

Building a monument

Visible from inner space,

Potent with achievement

Put the pages away but they

Do not leave my sight

Much beyond sleep

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creative writing, plot, work, writing

Take your story from idea to object

You prepare a synopsis, with all plot points from beginning to end via email. Don’t think of it as a teaser, I will need to see the spoilers and points where your story turns. Also, don’t worry if there are gaps. This will be where I come in.

 

You then fill out  your synopsis, email it to me, with a small consultation fee.

 

I will contact you with questions to clarify points in your story, your wishes and expectations.

I prepare and send you a report which highlights key areas, based on your concerns and my observations. If you have any questions about my findings, then you are free to ask as many as you need to.

 

You then prepare a new outline/synopsis based on my findings, which will give you a solid framework to complete or revise your story.

 

For an additional but reduced fee, additional consulting sessions are available if you want further revisions or want a more detailed report. It is all done with the sole aim of making your story the absolute best it can be.

 

You are not bound to follow any of my suggestions. I waive right to any additions you use, nor even entertain the thought of asking. It’s all yours, to use or disregard as you wish. You retain any and all rights to your work, and everything you share with me is in strictest confidence.

Contact me for further details: thelov3w3mak3@gmail.com

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men, poetry, work

Eastern Standard Tribe

In tailored armour

Black circles underneath

Our eyes,

Voices raw from persuasion

We soldier on

Warmed by the light

From close-held goals

The world asks us

To bear in silence

The wounds it inflicts

And through them

We mine for wisdom

Strength and substance,

We nod to one another

As we pass by

Onto the next battlefield

Carrying the remains with us

And leaving no man

No woman

Behind

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beauty, love, politics, women, work

Watching The Circus

Toni stood in line at the supermarket, jostling Henry on her hip as she watched the cashier check her coupons with the precision of a corrupt jeweller. The cashier glanced up at her with dull eyes and Toni steeled herself for  recognition which came too often to dismiss. She passed a faded coupon back to her between thumb and forefinger.

‘This one’s expired.’ The cashier said.

Toni grimaced and checked the small print, crumpled it up in her hand and shoved it into her back pocket. She considered dropping it but there were people behind her. Toni fought to ignore the impatient sighs and mumbled comments which arose with each second.

‘The others work, right?’ Toni said.

The cashier nodded, her eyes twinkled with pity which made Toni’s stomach churn. She handled indifference with aplomb but pity? Toni felt it like a slap across her face before she handed over her card and paid for the groceries.  She turned to one side, grabbed her bags in one hand and went outside. Henry wailed at a volume which felt like nails being hammered into her temples so she hustled across the car park, opened the trunk and put her bags inside. She entertained the exhausted impulse to put him in the trunk and enjoy the silent company of the groceries, but she turned and kissed him on a soft, wet cheek and smelled his hair instead.

Dad was in the yard, in his underwear when she pulled up, staring at her in frightened confusion as he scratched the white hairs on his melted wax abdomen and his yellowing shorts hung low on his hips, ragged and threadbare from too many laundry cycles. Toni swore under her breath as she got out and told him to go back inside. He stared at her, bottom lip flapping like an adulterer’s shirt tails and turned around.

‘Where’s Maria?’ Toni said.

Dad looked at her with the same expression a dog gave if you showed it a card trick before he shrugged his shoulders.

‘I’m hungry.’ He said.

Toni grimaced and got Henry from the child seat. Her dad walked inside, and she averted her gaze from his sallow, sagging buttocks, shocked by how he had degraded since Mom died.  She would call the agency and give them a piece of her mind, they cost enough and still hired incompetent carers for her dad. By the time she had soothed them both, the impulse passed and she had dinner to cook. Afterwards, Dad insisted on watching the news even though he wouldn’t remember what he watched. Toni stayed in the kitchen, did the dishes and tried to drown out the bray of her old boss at a press conference before it made her break something.

Her phone bleated and she picked it up.

‘Toni Keating.’ She said.

A sigh came through the phone and the hairs went up on the back of her neck.

‘Hi, Toni.’

David on the phone. The sound of his voice raised the hairs on her forearms, sent a low pleasurable trickle of lava down from her stomach into her pelvis. It lasted for a second before she looked at the sink full of dishes and her dad turned the volume up on the television. Reality tapped her on the shoulder and reminded her of how things were.

‘Fuck off, David.’ She said.

He sighed and told her to calm down which made her disconnect the call and put the phone back in her pocket.  She glanced at the television, saw him in a medium close up and giving the killer smile which had done so much harm to her so she called him back. It went to voicemail, and the smooth burr of his voice set her aflame.

‘When I see a fucking dime out of you, then you get the privilege of ringing me up to reminisce. Until then, don’t fucking call me. Ever. I wish you were dead.’ She said.

She disconnected the call, humming with self-righteousness until she heard Henry squall from his cot and she burst into hot, frustrated tears. She dashed through to get him and hustled him into her arms. She pressed her nose to the top of his head, inhaled him like good cocaine and squeezed her eyes shut against the tears.

Henry nestled against her chest and touched her cheek with a soft, sticky hand. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.  She walked through to the living room, asked her dad to turn the volume down and saw David on the television stood with the President.

Her lover and her boss, talking like old friends.

She still had a few of the suits in the wardrobe. The shoes had gone in a yard sale, for far less than she had paid. The black housekeeper walked off with a pair of Manholos, grinning like she had won the lottery. It had gone on diapers which was appropriate. No one recognised her anymore, the years had worn away the polish and make up was pointless, even for herself. She had gone from prime time television during the most controversial election in decades to just another aimless, crumpled mother in the streets. Mandy, her neighbour who lent her the occasional menthol cigarette in return for watching her son asked her once why she didn’t sell her story. Toni raised a finger to interrupt her, went through to her bedroom and came back with a thick document in her hands. She let it slide onto the table with a thump which made Mandy cry out.

‘That’s why.’ She said.

Non Disclosure Agreement. She had signed it as the price of the ticket to get aboard and she couldn’t imagine breaching it. Toni came to the campaign wreathed in a belief which resisted the logic and rhetoric of political commentators and journalists. She would have given up an arm for him if he had asked.

She lost more than that.

Henry cried and Dad had fallen into a light doze on the lounger as she stood there, watched the circus go on without her.  Toni wept. She threw a blanket over her dad’s legs and smiled at him. Toni remembered how he would babble to his friends about his little girl on the tv, representing the next President until his voice gave out. His mind had beaten his voice now, but in moments of clarity, he gazed at her with bemusement and she had to turn away. She cuddled Henry and kept kissing the top of his head.

‘It’s okay, baby.’ She said.

She kept saying it, over and over.

Over and over.

Over and over.

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books, creative writing, reading, work, writing

Updates On Writing and Reading. 2017

In 2016, I finished 4 first drafts, sent a final draft off to the agent for submission to publishers this month which is Until She Sings, my second book.

I read somewhere in the region of 300 books in the last twelve months, which is based on library loans and what I have on the Kindle. I do read quickly, but it’s not always the same speed with each book as sometimes the text demands that I slow down and savour the work a little more than normal.

I go by Stephen King’s maxim that reading is the key to good writing. Don’t use that as a stick to beat yourself with, I oftentimes wonder if what I do verges on obsession, but the truth of it is, I was a reader before I ever became a writer and there are a  great many books you will have read that I have not, and vice versa. We’re not in competition, and I put up the amount I read because it came up in conversation with a friend of mine and I was interested myself.

So, this year, I will be continuing to put my work out there. It is my purpose and I keep working to improve, or at least, not lose anything I have gained to inertia and apathy. I am at work on the second draft of Lawful Evil, and hit the 40 page mark of that today so that will occupy the next few months and then, circumstances permitting, will either be resuming work on Until She Sings or will be working on something new in a first draft, or working on Strange Lights in second draft. It probably sounds tedious, but it marks a progression of the process for me, and the aim was always to act like a professional even when no one was paying me money or attention.

In April, my short story, Women and Children First, will be published in Infernal Ink magazine which I am looking forward to sharing with you all.

So, the work continues, for those of who are new here, hi I am Matt, please feel free to drop me an email via the About page, and if anyone wants to collaborate on anything, I would be amicable to suggestions.

Thank you for reading my work. Please don’t be shy about commenting, and I will always try to return the courtesy. I know as much as anyone that writing can be lonely at times, and we should support one another where we can.

Welcome to 2017, we’re all just walking one another home, eh?

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