How To Write

Morning comes, nights fly by, hour-to-hour and most words die.

Don’ t stop writing, no I don’t, trying hard to get much wrote.

Never tire, always sweat, not quite happy, not quite upset.

This is the life of trying hard, of perseverance, of living poor.

Simple style, basic’s best, no need to shout or pound your chest.

Learn a thing or two from me – don’t worry much, don’t reach to deep.

Things are simple, yes they are, the heart is gold, the brain it lies.

Listen careful, see me speak, hear my eyes, confused I think.

All right one more I’ll end with this –

If you want to write just never quit.

– 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

Julie and Benjamin – Part 2

Julie and Benjamin sprinted away, shackled together by a chain-linked set of handcuffs. The police officer chased after them.

“I knew something like this would happen!” Said Benjamin.

“Well it’s hard to go unnoticed when you’re wearing handcuffs, Benjamin.”

The couple turned the corner and ran through a bush hedge into a backyard. The backyard was littered with bullet-holed beer cans and empty shell casings, along with a single rocking chair and a flaky wooden shed.

“In here!” said Julie.

“Are you crazy?” said Benjamin, as he tugged back his handcuffs and kept her from entering.

The sounds of approaching  sirens were accompanied by the shouts of, “Police, police!”

“Fine,” said Benjamin, practically dragging his wife behind as he kicked open the door. They slammed the door behind and found themselves engulfed in darkness. The cruisers could still be heard outside.

“This is all your fault,” hissed Julie.

“My fault?” said Benjamin. “It was you who talked me into your stupid plan!”

“Shut up.” Said Julie. “Just shut up. I hate you. I hate that I’m here with you. I hate that I ever married you.”

“Oh,” said Benjamin. “That hurts. That really hurts, Julie.”

“You’re not a strong man. You’re a coward.”

“Well you’re fat.”

“I am not fat!”

“Shhh, keep quiet.” Said Benjamin.

The two kept silent for a bit, as the sound of footsteps trudging through soggy grass could be heard just outside.

“Nobody here,” a voice finally said. The officers could be heard stomping away.

Julie issued a sigh of relief. “If only you didn’t get so nervous, we would have gotten away.”

“Oh please,” said Benjamin. “We got caught because you didn’t keep the officers distracted long enough.”

Julie scoffed. “It was a fool-proof plan, Benjamin. I was sobbing like a baby, and all the policemen were trying to calm me down. All you had to do was go through their lockers, toss all their uniforms in the sack, then walk. But no, you had to trip on the way out and spill everything.”

“Well it was a stupid theft in the first place. The more I think about your reason for wanting the uniforms, the more I question your sanity. By the way, thanks for taking the initiative to bolt after we were cuffed together!”

“I can’t believe I married such a… bore.”

“I can’t believe I married an insane woman.”

A light turned on. Julie and Benjamin turned to see a man sitting in the shed, a rifle in his lap and a cigarette in his mouth.

“You two done woke me up.” He puffed out smoke. “Ain’t nobody supposed to be on my premises, this here’s private property. You know what that means, don’t ya?”

“What?” said Julie.

The man stood up. A twisted grin overtook his face, and he held the rifle at his hip, barrel pointed in their direction.

Part 3, Coming Soon!

– Thomas M. Watt

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

Bitter’s Steed Walks Slow

Painful thoughts you sit and stew,

Badening memories come from you.

Hate the way you torment me, pry my brain with more longing.

Silent peace at once forgotten, flying angels seem like a concept.

Twisting neurons firing greed, winding my brain to selfish need.

Walking with my head down low, know where I’ve gone and where I’ll go.

Convinced at once with thoughts of doom, reflected by the grey clouds gloom.

Turning pain within my speak, writhing anguish churns in me.

So much loss with cost unknown, too much absence for hope to grow.

Leave me run from bitter’s steed, I have to breathe my soul to ease.

– Thomas M. Watt

Writers Digest Writers Conference

 

I went to a writers conference this weekend. At the conference, there is a thing called a ‘Pitch Slam.’ Now, if you’ve never done this, and you are a writer, I highly advise you to fork up the money and go to a writers conference. The pitch slam alone is worth it.

Why?

Because it gives you a chance to meet face-to-face with an agent. You will pitch your novel, and they will either request an email from you, or insist you please leave their presence immediately. The benefit is you get to find out where your novel stands, and build up a new-skin for enduring the business end of writing. 

If every agent rejects your manuscript, it is a good thing. Either learn how to pitch better, or set the piece of garbage down, go outside, and try to pretend like you are a normal human being who doesn’t know what this drug called ‘writing’ is all about. Time saver. 

Now, as for the writers conference in general, it was one of the coolest experiences of my lifetime. There are lectures all weekend covering all the facets of writing. From those who wish to learn more about the craft, to those which wish to learn more about business. 

And I pride myself to a point of bone-headed-arrogance on never bothering with ‘tricks of the craft’, but even I learned something which will be pivotal to my story, in relation to suspense and captivation. Here’s a hint – When your character is motivated to succeed in his quest by a good heart, it isn’t quite as exhilarating as the knowledge that he will certainly be murdered if he fails.

Furthermore, besides the lectures and the pitch-slam, there is the collection of writers. Writers ranging from your typical, “Aw hell, I’ll write a book shit. What’s it but a few purty words put to-gather?” To my new friend Joe, who is spending this entire week pitching screen plays to Hollywood execs. And yes, he’s already received some serious investments for his online show, “Precipice.” You can check it out at http://www.precipicetheseries.com 

Then, lastly, there is the canoodling. You get to talking with these people. The writers, the speakers, the agents, the teachers, the published authors. On Saturday, we all stood around and gingerly sipped alcoholic beverages with one another.

Word of advice from McWatty9 – If you ever want to make a great connection with someone, get drunk with them and talk about B.S. the whole night. Trust me, you will make a far greater impression then pitching your book to someone who just finished listening to book pitches for twelve hours.

So, in summary, if you are truly serious about getting published, go to one of these events. It is far easier to ‘make a name for yourself’ with a handshake and an introduction then it is to write so many published articles your name is ingrained in every reader’s memory. 

Thanks to Writers Digest for hosting a great event.

– Thomas M. Watt

Why do I do

When do the birds start singing, and when do the crickets creak,

When do the voices silence, and when do the words desist.

I spend this whole life trying, and thinking with distress,

I spend this whole night writhing, with pangs upon my chest.

Why do the words attack me, why do they always do,

Why do the words defeat me, why do they see me through.

The words cost more than paper, the lines which I abhor,

The point of writing blogs is, to show that you are more.

What is it to this thinking, why am I so obsessed.

What is it to this writing, that keeps me from the rest.

Why do the words amuse me, why do I see them through,

Why do they all just use me, why do they write them too.

When do I do my thinking, when do I do my thought,

When can I do the blinking, and why can’t I just jot.

– Thomas M. Watt