Writing Tips - Blank Page SyndromeSo you've got your novel or whatever all plotted out. You know what's going to happen each second of the way through. You know all of your main characters to the point of having written a full biography on each of them, including the waiter in chapter 3 who has like two lines of dialogue. You've got your favorite writing music playing on repeat. You've opened up a Word or Google Doc, your fingers ready to go. And yet... you just can't get started. You have no idea where to begin, and anything you try to type just feels weird and awkward. Such is the case of Blank Page Syndrome. The absolute hardest part of writing is getting started, and getting over this. It's not quite writer's block... you know what you want to do, and you could write another story if you want to, but you just can't start this particular novel. And you love this work you're about to begin on. You've been thinking about it so much that proofreading your last work has been a pain in the ass because this new idea keeps
Depression and The Five SensesI. Depression smells like cigarette smoke.
Its tendrils wrap around my mind and cloud my clear thinking.
It makes my throat burn,
With words I wish I could scream.
Depression smells like your old coat, hanging up in the hall closet.
The same coat you came home in
When your lungs finally collapsed in on you.
I wonder if a mind could do that.
Collapse in on itself.
Until there is nothing but smoke and the dark murk
Of late night thoughts.
Depression feels like walking out into a frozen over lake.
And falling through the fragile ice.
Between the dark and the light
Inside of my mind.
Suddenly everything is suspended.
I am drifting.
My mind is numb with frost bite.
Who knew I could be this cold?
Depression sounds like a completely silent room.
When the only thing that makes a noise
Is my thoughts.
Suddenly, every emotion is amplified by the quiet.
Silence is a perfect canvas for questioning everything about your existence.
Moments like this make me feel
As if I am not even real.
TubThe first thing that hits Lamont when he enters Luce's hovel he calls an office is the stench. Not the usual smell of booze and vomit and cigarettes, but the heavy tangy smell of copper mixed in with all of the aformentioned smells. Lamont sighs. He sets the box of groceries he always buy Luce at the end of the week and pushes open the bathroom door. The wall of smoke that billows out of the tiny room is stunning. No, really, it is. It's like running into a brick wall. If bricks were made out of tobacco smoke.
When the smoke clears, Lamont almost leaves. Really. He does. Luce is sprawled in the pinky gray water of the tub. A scalpel is on the scummy tiles next to the tub, bloody and abandoned. A lit cigarette perches inbetween Luce's fingers, the amount of ash steadily getting bigger before dropping off into the water. Tiny rivlets of blood drip down Luce's already heavily scarred arms.
The water is rippling, as Luce's arm goes up and down over and over again under the water. Luce hasn
Secrets of Superman's Underwear
ACTION COMICS No.40 coloredby JoeJusko
When did you start drawing? | All kids draw if you wedge a marker in their stubby paws, I just never stopped. I was a VERY shy kid with no self-respect whatsoever, I latched onto art almost immediately as a source of praise and redemption. Now that I have cheapened my lifelong love of art into a form of surrogate self-worth, the real answer is twelve. That summer a combination of questioning my future career, reading too many art books, and falling suddenly in love with Disney movies went critical, and I decided I wanted to be an animator. I committed myself from then on to taking drawing seriously. (Not long after that Disney culled its 2D feature film studios. I decided to pretend like that didn't happen, or might be reversed.)
How did you start drawing? | First, at midnight, I spread the entrails of a freshly killed weasel on the altar of the Mighty Satan... Ah. No, sorry. That was how I got my good looks.
I started drawing in serious by cleaning the local libra
It's hot in my apartment even if you're not hereWhy do I wake up,
halfway drowning in sweat and rattling thoughts
about who you could be,
candles in my room down to their wicks end,
and me just laying in bed for a few hours.
the worst part is that you're not ignoring me.
I could call you up,
lasso a conversation like we never left our last one
tell you I love you like always
but it's worse
because you would only ever be half there.
I could never have all of you,
could never take the full moon for what it is.
so why do I try to sleep,
with a wild hare up my ass
about what could have been of us,
candles burning brighter and hotter
than all of the solar system,
drowning in perspiration
when I know I'll just lay in bed for hours.
Canning SeasonCanning season is that wonderful time of year when you never have a moment to yourself - it's all four in the morning mason jar sterilizing, neighbors making coffee in your kitchen before you're even dressed because they have cabbage, too (or carrots or apples or string beans) and you've invited them over with a truck load because you know extra hands make all the difference.
It's the time of year when the kitchen is never comfortable - if the water's not on to boil, the oven is warming and full of jars, or the space around the table is all buckets and elbows, paring knives, sweaty brows and chatter.
There is never silence - even in that ten minutes of processing time, when everything stops long enough for a hurried dinner, there's the water-bath-bubbling, jar-rattling rumble of the canner, or the joyous gunshot snapping of the lids as each jar seals.
Those days are filled with wood smoke, steam and the smell of apple butter reducing in the large copper kettle that once lived with your
Tracing gets you nowhere.I remember when I was a kid, I'd record Saturday morning cartoons, play them back, pause the image, put a piece of paper over the screen and trace my favourite characters.
Now this was really hard in the VHS era, because a paused image on a VHS is usually either broken up or shakes so much that you’ll have some kind of fit if you look at it too long, it depended on how cheap and sh*tty your machine was.
But I worked really hard at it, man. I spent ages getting the linework just right, I was so careful, and when I peeled the page from the static cling of the bulbous, cathode ray tube screen, the character looked exactly right on the page. And you wanna know what I took away from that endeavour? What all that effort taught me?
Jack f**king sh*t.
You don’t pick up or develop any skills by tracing. You don’t devise and perfect your own methods by tracing. You do not progress as an artist by tracing. All you get is a loss of credibility, especially in this day and age, bec
Mini Horror Reviews - Mama (2013)
In this Issue
Something is in the Basement by david-sladek
It's October and the sacred 31 days of Halloween are upon us-time to get your gore on! The chill is in the air, the leaves are on the ground, and Halloween candy has been out since Labor Day. So while you’re waiting in the Starbucks line for an overpriced double pumpkin spice whatever, pass the time with this year’s scary movies reviews!
Insidious (Series 2010–2013)