I AM KING LIT!
Posted by Relentless on November 27th, 2012
YOU’RE A WRITER? SERIOUSLY?
Posted by Relentless on March 1st, 2011
IF YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH, YOU’D BETTER NOT READ THIS!
The truth, FRIENDO, is you can’t write worth a fuck! And its not merely your writing, but your story has no substance. Its full of hood-speak and nuances that are of interest to people who are shallow in their own life’s discovery. In other words, all they wanna hear is vulgarity, sex, and all about any relation to the dead cycle they’re caught up in. They have no interest in growing, or expanding beyond their environment because they’re stuck on the nail; they’re even comfortable on the nail, just like your writing. I would LOVE to sit here and encourage you, but you need some tough love. You need a kick in the ass! And besides, that wouldn’t be keeping it real!
AND THERE’S MORE!
You have no sense of perspective. You’re writing is all one-dimensional, as if you (the wannabe writer) are God. If you were God, you might have something important and relevant to talk about in your book. And you don’t even hafta be that to be an effective writer; how about just being able to command a reader’s attention with a cohesive paragraph? Hint: if I hafta read that paragraph twice to understand it, you are not cutting the cheese. And how about learning about plotting, tempo, building a character? How about having a voice? You don’t have a voice, friendo. What you are is a town crier, not even loud enuf for the town to hear you. So then, you’re an apartment crier, talkin slick in the mirror/gangsta-grillin in your dreams; stuck in a room that’s not even officially ghetto. If you wanna spend your life tryna “keep it real,” you might wanna show us that (instead of tell us) and become a real writer. You might wanna go back to the drawing board, pick up on some mastery, so your writing won’t continue to be such a mystery.
YOU ASK: “What’s the drawing board consist of, Relentless?”
I RESPOND: “I’m so glad you asked!”
- “First of all, burn all the shit you THINK is good writing. Because if you’ve been using that as a blueprint, you either were so caught up in it that you were more entertained than busy with the dynamics of how the story was put together. That, or you were reading some crap to begin with. CRAP=the pretty chic on the cover, the spicy buy-line, and the empty promise of the title that is just as much a lie as the cross-eyed imaginings within the covers.”
- “Second; good writing is not necessarily about perspectives, as it is about having a voice. If you don’t have a voice, you’re not a writer. You might as well get you some crayons, because those of us who have indeed mastered our craft are laughing at your silly ass, callin yourself “keeping it real” on your pages. Get a hint, hustler: a true gangster moves in silence. He or she doesn’t promote thru music on disc or words on paper. And the last thing they do is get on the couch with a newscaster to say “I’m a gangster” with the cameras rolling. And if you’re claiming some kind of paradigm-shift and how you’re changing the definition of a gangster, you surely won’t last in a world of so many other town criers who call their words “writing.”
- Finally, you’ve attempted to “un-learn” what you think is good writing. You’re now reading and researching the dynamics of storytelling. There’s just one thing left to do. BOOYAH! The game is to be sold, not told! YOU figure it out!
*Okay, so that’s harsh. And I don’t act that way all day/everyday. What I meant to say was—in my kinder/gentler voice—there’s so much I’ve written over the years in my many blogs that can help you, the aspiring author. So read it, put it to use. And maybe you can come up out that hole in the ground that you think is a writer’s world, that you think is a solid foundation of things you know or which you have been through, when in reality its quicksand.
Shout out to the real gangsters who’ve managed to ignore all the bullshit people print in books.
Also of interest to authors!
GROWING & BLOWING: HOW I WENT FROM AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR, TO FILM MAKER
If you say it loud enough, you’ll always sound precocious
Posted by Relentless on May 6th, 2010
Let's try to speak, act, debate and communicate "ON PURPOSE." Look, I can't control who you are and the decisions you make; but I can show you a better way to achieve your outcome. The key is to live and survive so that you can indeed achieve that positive outcome. ONE LOVE. RELENTLESS LOVE
Relentless & Yoanni, the Air Force Girl @ Starbucks
Posted by Relentless on October 14th, 2008
Am I gettin Relentless here? This beautiful woman is often spotted in the 125th St/Lennox Av area. She works at the Air Force recruiting station and I’ve noticed her from time to time. (How could I NOT!?) Today, she just happened to catch me in a euphoric mood, in the midst of my East Coast book tour, so the KINGPIN came out!
Posted by Relentless on September 5th, 2008
All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, “Oh, why can’t you remain like this for ever!” This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end.
Mrs. Darling first heard of Peter when she was tidying up her children’s minds. It is the nightly custom of every good mother after her children are asleep to rummage in their minds and put things straight for next morning, repacking into their proper places the many articles that have wandered during the day.
If you could keep awake (but of course you can’t) you would see your own mother doing this, and you would find it very interesting to watch her. It is quite like tidying up drawers. You would see her on her knees, I expect, lingering humorously over some of your contents, wondering where on earth you had picked this thing up, making discoveries sweet and not so sweet, pressing this to her cheek as if it were as nice as a kitten, and hurriedly stowing that out of sight. When you wake in the morning, the naughtiness and evil passions with which you went to bed have been folded up small and placed at the bottom of your mind and on the top, beautifully aired, are spread out your prettier thoughts, ready for you to put on.
I don’t know whether you have ever seen a map of a person’s mind. Doctors sometimes draw maps of other parts of you, and your own map can become intensely interesting, but catch them trying to draw a map of a child’s mind, which is not only confused, but keeps going round all the time. There are zigzag lines on it, just like your temperature on a card, and these are probably roads in the island, for the Neverland is always more or less an island, with astonishing splashes of colour here and there, and coral reefs and rakish-looking craft in the offing, and savages and lonely lairs, and gnomes who are mostly tailors, and caves through which a river runs, and princes with six elder brothers, and a hut fast going to decay, and one very small old lady with a hooked nose. It would be an easy map if that were all, but there is also first day at school, religion, fathers, the round pond, needle-work, murders, hangings, verbs that take the dative, chocolate pudding day, getting into braces, say ninety-nine, three-pence for pulling out your tooth yourself, and so on, and either these are part of the island or they are another map showing through, and it is all rather confusing, especially as nothing will stand still.
Of course the Neverlands vary a good deal. John’s, for instance, had a lagoon with flamingoes flying over it at which John was shooting, while Michael, who was very small, had a flamingo with lagoons flying over it. John lived in a boat turned upside down on the sands, Michael in a wigwam, Wendy in a house of leaves deftly sewn together. John had no friends, Michael had friends at night, Wendy had a pet wolf forsaken by its parents, but on the whole the Neverlands have a family resemblance, and if they stood still in a row you could say of them that they have each other’s nose, and so forth. On these magic shores children at play are for ever beaching their coracles [simple boat]. We too have been there; we can still hear the sound of the surf, though we shall land no more.
Of all delectable islands the Neverland is the snuggest and most compact, not large and sprawly, you know, with tedious distances between one adventure and another, but nicely crammed. When you play at it by day with the chairs and table-cloth, it is not in the least alarming, but in the two minutes before you go to sleep it becomes very real. That is why there are night-lights.
Occasionally in her travels through her children’s minds Mrs. Darling found things she could not understand, and of these quite the most perplexing was the word Peter. She knew of no Peter, and yet he was here and there in John and Michael’s minds, while Wendy’s began to be scrawled all over with him. The name stood out in bolder letters than any of the other words, and as Mrs. Darling gazed she felt that it had an oddly cocky appearance.