Social Media and #Pitmad Update

Let me start out by saying I’m grateful to be here.

No, seriously. I’ve spent the last few hours fumbling my way through twitter, goodreads, and a few cover design pages. My last post outlined five goals for promoting my book. I’m happy to say I can check off all of them.

The big #pitmad event was today. Much thanks to Zara Kramer with Pandamoon Publishing for favoriting my pitch for Master, I look forward to querying you shortly.

Anyway, contacting potential cover artists was a piece of cake. I’m not too particular – if the portfolio looks professional, I’m in.

After that I logged some hours on goodreads. God I’m lost there. I posted in three different discussion threads, then updated my page with a worthless post. If you like laughing at clueless people, scroll down and read the comment that begins with “waddup goodreaders.” I don’t even know how to link directly to the post, but here’s one for my profile page. I’m sure all 1 of my goodreads friends can’t wait to check it out.

One of the big highlights of my day was having a few of my tweets retweeted. By some mega-twitter accounts and highly established authors, mind you – Carole Gill, J. H. Moncrief, and Charity Parkerson. Apparently they liked what I had to say. Or maybe they just thought my hopeless twitter account would give their hordes of followers a good chuckle. I really want to thank them properly, but I’m not yet educated about twitter etiquette. Do I say: Thanks for retweeting! @twitternamehere(?)

Please answer if you know how to solve this dilemma. I signed up to follow these word-weaving powerhouses, but feel obliged to properly express my gratitude.

Happy #pitmad day everyone.

• Thomas M. Watt

I’m Am Not Crazy Anymore Before I Wrote This

Getting cold, my muscles jitter, brain it’s done but words don’t wither.

How much longer can I go pushing, when all the weights are filled with cushion?

What is wrong with all my thoughts when they all rhyme and words get tossed.

Do not think a line before, it just comes out and rhymes some more.

Getting colder, yes I am, feel oh-so close approaching death.

Tired friend, I really am, hurting much, close to the end.

Too much coffee, being alone, too much knowledge not yet exposed.

Understanding much doth bring lots of pain and comfort’s sting.

Just for once give me one fan, a reader of what I think not’s bland.

So much pain this job it brings so much of knowing uncertainty.

Days to nights from nights to day and all day long the words glow grey.

I see them coming from my pen, straight to my paper and edit them.

All for what, for who, for nothing, holy shit have I missed something?

I sure hope not, don’t think I have, I’m pretty sure I’m not that bad.

Hearing speak, it gets so old, almost all words are thrown at bold.

La-de-dah, da-de-de-doh, read my words or they’re unwrote.

No I don’t care much ’bout me nor bout the things that money brings.

But these words I feel them tear, I feel the way good words run fair.

Swooping circles, silent dew, some metaphors fill me with puke.

How can I judge, how can I say, how can my voice mean anything.

I am unpublished, not yet a dollar, just a lot of words and not much slumber.

Do-de-dah de-dee-de-dooh, I think this poem’s shitted gold.

I’m not yet crazy, not yet I ain’t, but maybe by the end I fade.

Seeing sounds and hearing lights and smelling touch and thinking howls.

Oh my goodness oh my gosh I have just lost it my brain needs scotch.

Settle down my fine brain please, it’s time to put the thoughts at ease.

Just let them stop we’re sounding mad, scaring off potential fans.

What will they think when they all know that we don’t think ’bout what we wrote.

Oh my golly goodness shoes! What do shoes even have to do, with anything here being used?

Brain I swear, I swear I fear you’ve lost your mind! Yes now I’ve said it.

You’ve gone away and left me endless. Need to please stop typing this, not one out there knows what we mean.

You’re scaring them, my brain, please stop! How many words does your work cost? 

Just lose it brain you need to quit it, this poem is a tale unwritten.

– Thomas M. Watt

The Worst Kind of Marriage – Part 5

Missed the beginning? – Click below for Part 1

• https://thomasmwatt.wordpress.com/2013/11/02/the-worst-kind-of-marriage-part-1/

Bethany finished up the stairs. She entered the room first, while Amanda followed behind. Huerto, The sick pervert who had kidnapped each of them and called himself a husband, was in the back, carrying his rifle with him.

Bethany looked to the bed. Her puddle of blood still remained. She clenched her stomach wound. She was dizzy.

Get a hold of yourself.

Bethany squeezed her eyelids closed, grimaced, then remembered she had one chance to escape.

Find the knife.

“Ok my little lady. Are you ready to get our wedding underway?” Said Huerto to the young blonde teenager.

Amanda sniffed, but did not answer.

“I love you, you know,” said Huerto.

Amanda sniffed again.

“Say you love me bitch!”

Huerto smacked the young woman across the face with his rifle. After she kept at a hunch and he started to swing again.

“HEY!” Said Bethany.

The pock-marked Huerto stopped. He looked at her funny, smirked then raised the barrel in her direction. “What was that, honey?”

“Don’t hit her.”

Huerto shifted the bolt handle then locked it down, loading his rife. “Dear, I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve forgotten how this relationship works. Have you?”

Bethany looked down. She spotted the bloody knife. It was on the ground behind Huerto.

“I’m the master, you’re the slave. Right?”

Bethany gulped. She looked at Amanda.

Amanda barely shook her head. “No,” she mouthed with her lips.

“Right?” said Huerto, holding the gun to Bethany’s pale cheek.

She finally nodded.

“All right, great!” He hugged Amanda in close with his free arm. “Let’s get the ceremony underway. Are you excited baby?”

Amanda didn’t answer.

Huerto threw her headlong into the desk near the window. “I said, are you FUCKING excited!” He walked over to her then kicked her in the stomach.

Bethany looked at the ground. The knife was in plain sight, and Huerto’s back was to it.

“ARE YOU?” Screamed Huerto.

Amanda cried.

Get it. Get the knife.

Bethany started after it, but as soon as she did Huerto whirled around and loosely aimed the gun at her. “Where are you going?”

Though she was curled up in the fetal position, Amanda bit Huerto on the front of his shin.

“Ahh!” He returned his attention to her and smacked Amanda in the ribs with his barrel.

Bethany moved fast, too fast. When she reached for the knife she kicked it instead. Over shoulder she saw the painful expression on Amanda’s face. The young girl bit Huerto’s leg again anyways, and dealt with the repercussions.

The knife had slid under the dresser. Bethany crouched to her hands and knees and reached for it. The blade cut her fingertip and she felt it spin away.

C’mon!

She could hear Amanda getting pummeled. Time was running out. Bethany lowered all the way to her stomach, felt around underneath, then finally took hold of the handle. She shimmied her arm back out, knife in hand. She gritted her teeth, shot to her feet, then turned around.

“What the fuck are you doing?” said Huerto. He was holding Amanda up, his fist clenching her hair.

Part 6, Coming Soon!

– Thomas M. Watt

The Writer of Words

The words the words the writer of words,

The one who lives for the nouns and the verbs.

Alone in his attic, gone to his room, thinking of something, a plot twist or truth.

The words the words the writer of words.

Prose doth he speak, knows what he knows, sees what folks doesn’t, see what folks done.

Thinking it always, see words less speak, teaching us something, writes what we read.

The words the words the writer of words.

Always he does, tinker his best, lays down the rules, opens his chest.

Let’s us all in, to that weird little mind, provides for us glimpses, of thoughts stuck in time.

The words the words the writer of words.

What is this talent to roll and to go. What is this desire to describe just one rose.

A man of the world? A man of the arts? A maker of stories? A thief of used plots?

What is his trait, why does he think. Why does it matter if we like what we read?

What is this passion? From where does it come? Secluded in nothing, promises to him none.

Not laughing funny, not getting laid, not getting read much, not getting paid.

Still he can’t sleep. Still he does write. Still his pen scribbles. Still he sees light.

Where is this end? At what tunnel he thinks? Does he not know that he’s working for free?

Find his reward, please show it to me! Tell me the prize to take on this disease!

Tell me for once, just give me one word, give me a reason this mans lives so absurd!

Well I’ll tell you reader, I’ll say what I know – The thought of not writing fills writers with woes.

For when pain does come, when life is unfair, there’s two kinds of escapes, addicts all do share –

One is through drugs, sex and bad things. The other’s through art, hearts raised to beauty.

For a man of the world does not see these two lines – he is a fool who thinks they’re both of one kind.

But I tell you something, for I have once seen – A man in his mind accomplish impossible things.

For hours spent thinking, writing fine lines, imagine the way to reach that pinnacle high.

How does that happen, to whom does it go? Who are these writers we have come to know?

They are the ones who persisted the best, they are the writers who pushed on from the rest.

Through all the rejection, the hatred and such, the loss of a lifetime, the miss of one’s touch.

Keep going forward, make that book great. Get that shit perfect, work through night’s late.

At the end of your life, on your death bed, would you rather have quit, or stuck it out to be best?

Is it not worth the struggle, not worth the strife, to see your own words, passed on through time?

I say it is, I say that I do, the words I do love you, now please love me too.

The words

The words

The Writer of Words

– Thomas M. Watt

I Should Not Post This

Surgery, hand’s asleep, drugs are messing with my head.

I am not a little boy nor good thinker when I’m floyed.

Yes that word I made up there  ’cause currently I don’t give a care.

Good time to post? Not so much. Hard to think I’m all drugged up.

Get me Cheetos and some cheese ah forget it I’ll take the keys.

Oh what’s that I cannot drive? Well fine then you drive I’ll ride.

Cheetos Cheetos what a plan, cat named Chester seems like nice friend.

I like his glasses and his wit, be fun to hear him joke a bit.

How was my surgery you want to ask? Wearing arm sling but it will pass.

Naked walking through the streets, buttoned shirt on just one sleeve.

Like the way girls look at me, like I’m wounded just to treat.

Favorite parts of girls is there – the way they care when life’s not fair.

Yippy, yes, yippet-yeah – I like the girls who love to share –

All their kindness with a stranger, even when he could mean danger.

Danger sexy or a risk? Hope I didn’t myself convict.

Meant to say a sexy way, now my image is in decay.

Well, ripe, welp, outwith, forgive me drugs are writing this.

What to do oh what to say, kind of stuck on girls all day.

I wonder if writer’s get laid by well-played prose and timely plays.

Quite so cool oh it would be, to say a line and make them scream –

“Oh you’re so brilliant sexy man! Oh please come hither to my bed,

Say me more so I can dream about your brain you dazzle me.”‘

I would respond, “Oh, ha-ha, aha tee-he, girl you’re… something autumn leaves.”

 “You said something in that phrase, I am quite sure you’ve ruined this blaze.”

“What, a blaze? You mean this trick? You mean the way I feed my dick?”

“Oh you bastard! Don’t you care! And your followers, with them you’ll share?”

“Shit I guess so, wrote it down. Damn my lady you’ve made me frown!”

“Perhaps you should now, after-all. You’ve proved yourself has too much gall.”

“Hmm… I like that!”

“Well they won’t! In fact they’re turned off by your quotes.”

“Damn I tell you, damn I say, girl just run please go away.”

“Ugh of course of course I will. You’ve turned me off without your quill.”

“Well I’m drugged so it’s okay, but one quick word before you stray?”

“What! What is it? I’m leaving goon, I hate the thought I thunk to spoon.”

“Yes me too just with my wiener. Shit I said it -“

“Dare go on I’ll kick your knees. For the love of blogs what did you need?”

“What? Oh yes now I remember – please purchase Cheetos and bring them hither.”

– This has been Thomas M. Watt post-op and on a variety of drugs.

The Writers’ Dream

Back is hurting, ass is sweaty, tired of hunching, always pressing,

Got to get back on my feet got to get those words to seep –

Through my fingers, from my pen, to the desktop, repeat again.

How many drafts does one book take, how much perfection do readers crave?

Doesn’t matter, I don’t care, I know one day it will get there.

Perseverance? That is shit. Try to spend one year like this.

Learn to get up when you’re damper, know each word from front to backwards.

See description and how it lies, find out what meets readers’ eyes.

For it is not the talk of bees, nor the words that make you pleased.

What readers want is not so much, just to read and feel a rush.

To stimulate the modern mind, without much pictures in faster times,

To do the work of talking grand is indeed one dumb-ass of a plan.

They did not come here just to see the mind of yours and learn you’re deep.

They came instead to just relax, to grab a book and eat a snack.

To keep them going for one night, to let them think your book reads right.

Get them thinking it’s a treat, get them wondering why ‘Jack leaps’.

Raise a question, submit the answer, in the middle fill with banter.

Do this once and you’ll achieve, fulfillment of the writers’ dream.

– Thomas M. Watt

Self-Publishing VS. Mainstream Publishing

If You Close The Door The Night Can Last Forever. – Great post about relationship between self-publishers and retailers.

Mayor Dunlap’s Estate

This is the Dunlap’s estate. It is known as the most lavish abode in all of Gnashing, and is frequently admired by all who pass by. It is located in the farm country, and is the same home former Congressman P. Farro inhabited.

Michael has some troubling childhood memories here, as the third story room was where he committed twelve murders during the Slave Owner Slaughter.

For more about my novel, “Way of the World,” feel free to check out my website at http://www.thomasmwatt.com

Perhaps I’m Not an Idiot

Tired eyes, sleepy sighs, words are ringing singing rhymes,

Bells are back, the ruse it floats, I’d sure love to write good quotes,

Hope someday this dreams lands here in this present atmosphere,

Keep on going, almost there, getting close produces scare.

How much better can this be? How much work I’ve done for free.

All for one to read it true, all for buyers to say I do.

Cannot imagine a greater feeling than to produce an intrigued viewing.

Read my book, won’t you please, take a look, enjoy the read.

If you don’t, I don’t care… No I’m kidding to be fair.

Writing words that make you quit will make me throw a childish fit.

But to see you turn that page, just to feel you feel my rage,

To know the man is not alone, to know for sure I wrote true prose,

Just to see you stop and stare, to feel your eyes on what I’ve put there.

To know my pen produced that scribble, to hear my page played like a fiddle,

To know I’ve conquered the t.v., to see for once the thoughts of me –

Carried on into another, shared by those who pass the cover.

To see the work amount to glee, to know for once I’m not diseased.

Finding out is not so bad, as long as finding makes you glad.

– Thomas M. Watt

Artie, Norman, and Willie

These three are the first batch of bandits from Wild Bill’s gang.

Artie has a gold corner tooth and laughs like a hyena. He is by far the most annoying of the group, but also happens to be the brightest.

Willie is a creep. Plain and simple. He has black, stringy-hair and spends the majority of his time searching for worms in the ground or picking his nose. He loves Sylvester, but despises Adam.

Norman is built like a statue. He laughs in a low, monotone voice.”Haugh, haugh, haugh.” He doesn’t say much else.

To find out more about my novel, “Way of the World,” shoot me an email at wayoftheworld@thomasmwatt.com or check out my website, http://www.thomasmwatt.com