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

A Conversation between Thomas M. Watt and a character from his book

Adam from, “Way of the World.”

Thomas and Adam were both sitting on the curb together. Thomas was wearing his shoulder sling, while Adam was sipping scotch from his flask, dressed in his usual eccentric attire.

“Rah, why are we here, Thomas?” said Adam.

Thomas shrugged. “I don’t know. Just wanted to talk, I guess.”

“Talk? You want to talk let’s do it at a barroom.”

“We’re here, so just deal with it.”

“Sure.” Adam scoffed. “Deal with it. He shook his head. “What a terrible phrase. Well, let’s have at it then. What have you brought me here for?”

“I wanted to talk about your plot. I wanted to see how you felt about it.”

“About what, exactly?” said Adam.

“You know, the love curse. The prophesy on the train. The fact that if you fall in love it puts your entire company at risk.”

“You know that company hardly matters to me. And I don’t care about love, either. Despite what you might think,” Said Adam, scratching his long white chin.

Thomas laughed and adjusted his sling. “What about those quiet moments when you seem ashamed of yourself?”

“What! C’mon! Everybody has those moments! It’s called having fun. Thomas, listen, I honestly don’t care about my plot, whatsoever. I just need you to do one thing for me.”

“What?”

“Allow me to fuck Evelynn.”

“What! I can’t do that!” said Thomas.

“Why not?” said Adam.

“Because that’s what’s driving your whole story now! It’ll kill the suspense!”

“Oh, forget suspense! Here, I’ve got an idea.” Adam stretched his tall lanky legs straight out in front of him, then rested his white-gloved hands in his lap.

“What?” said Thomas.

“How about this – If I don’t have sex with Evelynn at least twenty times in your novel, the Kingsley Products goes out of business.”

Thomas laughed. “I’m sorry, I can’t see that appealing much to readers over the age of thirteen.”

Adam stood up, then brushed some dirt off of his white buckskin shoes. “Rah.” He stood up straight. “Well what’s with you, anyhow?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, how are you? What exactly happened today?”

“With what?” said Thomas.

“Oh, c’mon, you know what! You had a captivating story going for a few days, then you published the finale this morning, and… well… let’s just say it wasn’t good.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“In fact, I’d say it was shit.”

“Yeah. I know,” repeated Thomas.

Adam laughed. He picked up a small black pebble then tossed it into the street. “Why did you publish it?”

Thomas shook his head. “I don’t know. I had forty-five minutes to write it, and by the time the first draft was finished, I had to get out the door. I guess I just pressed publish without a second thought.”

“It was a mistake.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Nine views and three likes. I’m hoping they just didn’t wanna press the button.”

“No,” said Adam. “They read it and decided it was shit.”

Thomas raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, or that.”

“Billy the butler? That was almost offensive. You’re not a very good writer, you know.”

“I created you.”

“Yeah, that’s why I said it. You don’t bring a character out of his normal setting to have a conversation with him. And about his own plot, for rah-sakes!”

Thomas stood up. “Well shit, I’ve been struggling all day with this thing. I even wrote a poem about it.”

“Yeah, and the poem sucked.”

“You’re kind of a dick, you know.”

“And you’re kind of a bad writer.”

“Whatever dude. I’m leaving.”

“Hey dude!” Adam called out, as Thomas started away.

“What?!”

“Write me more sex scenes! Get me some new flousies or something!”

“It’s spelled floozies.”

“Shut-it, you’re the writer. It was you who decided to be different and spell it your way.” Adam adjusted his black felt topper and failed to hide his smirk.

“What?” said Thomas.

“I’m just embarrassed to have been created by you, is all.”

Thomas opened to speak, before biting down hard on his bottom lip and walking away.

– Billy the Butler

Editing

Words fall down to death by red sword, pen cuts out the excess whores.

Red pen ink, to my page, stains the thoughts I pressed in pain.

Cut the shit the darlings too, kill the ego made from ruse.

Red line runs through half a page, cuts out these words I thought were great.

Cut the shit, cut it through, line-to-line an ‘X’ marks lose.

Red ink here and there a lot, lines by circle coffee blots.

Oh what action oh what prose guess what my words it’s time to go,

Leave my pages, I’m sucking thin, the story goes without you in.

I am so sorry, understand, the reader has made his own demands.

He said your lovely quite alright but he fears you’re endless plight.

You see dear words your painted tint, a sort of way to fake a win.

I guess you came to satisfy these thoughts of mine which I thought write.

Looks like I tossed you in a pile, mulled you over for a while.

Fell in love with your sweet mirth, should not have slept with Mrs. Adverb.

Time to say goodbye to you, nice to make you show such truths.

I am so sorry and so sad it’s come to this oh yes it has,

One more chance to let you speak, just one last thought I’m setting free.

The words that float and sound so good, the two I say do sound so rude.

I’m going to have to end with that, a spit of banter yet compact,

Off you go unneeded prose, take your charm you’ve been disposed.

No more fancy, no more show, grab your friend and off you go.

Suck my words into the night, enjoy this rhyme and sleep alright.

Read a thing a time or two, see it’s madness writing for you.

Well my words goodbye you two, bull-shit ends now – I bid ado.

– Thomas M. Watt

Here Comes Next Stage

Tempers flare here comes frustration Writers Conference Registration,

Hope I didn’t just waste this year hope I make connections here.

Hope to lay my cards to table hope to interest them in fables.

Tired of these sleepless nights tired of my write sight.

Need to get away from here move to next task a different gear.

Much too long in isolation far too long with no consolation.

Time to make a dime or two a penny or a thousand few.

Let’s get me somewhere find a name move on from here and too next stage.

Sorry fellows but I’ve been thinking, without a fan my work is sinking.

– Thomas M. Watt

Painting Today

Painting illustrations for my book, “Way of the World” today. It is not easy but I’m hoping they will draw some attention to my book when the website is ready to launch. Depicting scenes from certain chapters and painting the cover this morning, hoping to make it my gravatar when it is done. How about you? How is your day going?

The Way of the World

Chipper feelings feeling good

Sweating more then I probably should

Working hard working late editing sure takes the cake

Mundane work oh yes it is yet still it is so important

What to wear what to say what to do I’m done today

Making my book fresh and tight fixing that shit ’till that shit’s right

Running hard walking fast thinking quickly what’s next task

Creating website here it goes soon the time comes to expose

What I’ve been doing with my life the reason I’ve spent a year inside

The truth is coming so get ready the book is close to being pretty

See the truth evolve from lies in this series I’ll grow your eyes

Soon you will see what’s divine soon I’ll show the world it’s very own lie

Starting steady so it goes the world still don’t even know

Just you wait just wait and see what I’ve written will be read and seized

It is coming almost here tell the worldly they all should fear

The book of days the book of all, “The Way of the World” is what it’s called.

– Thomas M. Watt

The Dreamers Who Do

Wake up get up get out get tough,

Do work live work need work see work.

Do not tire do not quit do not worry do not sit.

What’s the task what it do, I fight that shit ’til I push through.

Get it done get it goin’ make that paper into somethin’.

You got dreams? I got ’em too so does everyone else you fool.

Who will make it? Too many try so where then lies the great divide?

It’s here you know I tell the truth the barrier between those like you –

Who will work on through the pain who treats the risks like it’s a game,

Who’s fearless who doesn’t doubt who grabs their junk as they strut out.

Walk that line, nod your head, let them see you feel their dread.

Every dreamer is put down, cast away and turned around –

Well, except for those who know one day all perseverance shows,

‘Cause those guys fight on through the rain and keep improving everyday.

Those guys bust their ass through shit those guys never think to quit.

Those guys make it, dreamers do, and if you’re willing you can too.

And on that day when that day comes, those people who mocked you on your run,

Those people will find you turn and say, “Congratulations, let’s hang today!”

Here’s my advice please listen to me, fuck those people who didn’t believe.

– Thomas M. Watt

Time to Edit

Time to get to work and to fix all that I’ve said,

Time to do a job and get those freakin’ pages read.

Time to edit writing that once came from my head,

Time to do the very thing that every writer dreads.

To see the words again that I’ve seen so many times before,

Time to perfect the writing that some will still abhor.

Get to the last stages of cleaning up ma manuscript,

Fixin’ all the typos and polishin’ all my grammar shit,

Doin’ all the stuff  that they say you s’posed to do,

Makin’ words to money is the hardest thing a writer do.

Soundin’ like an idiot may be what I do best,

but when I’m done with all this shit my book it will attest,

I’m not half as dim-witted as most ma enemies suppose,

I’m not the type of guy who settles for bad prose.

Time to get to workin’ on the best thing that I do,

Time to fix the book I wrote ‘fore sellin’ it to all of you.

– Thomas M. Watt

When Men act as Men

The tree stump was rooted deep in the soil. It was time for a new tree to be planted, but before it could, the old stump needed to be uprooted.

The father and son stood at odds on many things. Career choices, personal views, political views, even thoughts on what was right and what was wrong. But the tree stump needed to go, and they were the only two willing to do it.

So they chopped. They took the axe and chopped, again and again, for hours. Still, the tree wouldn’t budge. Their hands were blistered, their bodies were tired, but the tree stump still remained.

So they pushed on. They pushed on and chopped at that damn tree like it was the scum of the earth, like it was the true root of all the world’s problems.

More time passed, but the stump still hadn’t budged. Their hands were bloody, their faces were red and sweaty, and every and all intellectual thought told them it was time to quit, and wait for another day to uproot the old tree stump.

But the father looked at the son, and smiled as he said, “Boy, I don’t know ’bout you, but I want this sucker out soon.”

The boy looked at his pop and returned. “Dad, I don’t know about you, but I won’t sleep if this stump still has roots.”

So they returned to the axing. Swinging and chopping, grunting and heaving. Gradually, the stump began to break loose from the soil, and, pretty soon, after a strenuous effort of tugging and pushing, they finally managed to pull the old tree stump out from the ground.

The father and son shared a brief grin, before simultaneously struggling to catch their breaths as they panted heavily. Eventually, the father stood up straight, put his hand on his son’s shoulder, then said to him, “Boy, we may disagree on things, and we may dispute a time or two. But when it comes down to it, I’m the same man as you.”

The son crossed his arms. “I don’t see that dad, I’m sorry pa, I think I disagree with you on more than all.”

The father laughed, then picked up a cold beer from the outside fridge, popped it open, then took a swig. “When I was your age my papa done raised me to see just as he, to see what he sees. But time done unfold and as I grow old, I realize that things ain’t all which they seem. For in relaxed state all men tend to hate, despise one another, make enemies outta brothers. But when it comes down to it and problems arise, difficult tasks which some folk despise, their must be a force to tackle the issue, there must be some men who don’t need a tissue. So when it comes down to it and it’s time to face woes, men act as men and fuck up their foes.”

The son smiled, opened the fridge, then took a beer for himself. He clanked the beer with his dad, and the two men enjoyed a swig together.

– Thomas M. Watt

Let Us Wake

The day begins so fresh and new,

the thoughts that breed creation.

The light of sun and morning dew,

bring us to elation.

The hopes and dreams for what today could be,

will bring us to frustrations.

To complete the goals of dreaming souls,

to commit divine translation.

To bring from God what wisdom taught,

to beat the world’s temptation.

To hear the voice and miss the sounds,

to work hard at work stations.

It is the time to smile bright,

to say this will be new.

It is the time to remind ourselves,

our troubles will be through.

Do not start weary or depressed,

start up ready and refreshed.

Combat the battles that you must,

defend the King from evil’s lust.

Live to conquer and you shall see,

this day the world won’t conquer me.

– Thomas M. Watt