Sir-Ex

It begins:



So I occasionally do this thing where I smoke a lot of weed and record myself performing improv on guitar. It's pretty cool what comes out sometimes, so I thought, why not try it with writing? Well. Here it goes.

I shall attempt to write a scene.

Being stoned. It's not the greatest mindset to have for writing. Writing, especially when writing a story, requires one to focus on a single idea for as long as it takes to get that idea out in words. It's pretty fucking hard even when sober to be able to find that right set of words in the right order that never-but-almost perfectly conveys exactly what that idea is.

Donald walked his dog around the block.

That's a pretty simple idea, so obviously the sentence doesn't require that much thought. But what if I'm trying to convey what it feels like to be a kid mashing your feet in mud? To do that I'm trying to catch more than just a simple action. I'm trying to find a way to describe what it feels like to be a [I]kid[/], and not just by laying out a few pretty adjectives like, 'the young child frivolously mashed his tiny feet through thick clods of slick, black mud.'

It creates a pretty good visual image but it doesn't do much more than that. What I need to do is figure out how to put you there

Youth, a white hot sun burning brightly upon his face. The smell of spring wafting through his head; pollen, pine, and freshly cut grass. A day to harness in the heat - beating down as he presses cold mud through soft toes of mellifuous desire.


I like that a little better. Well I guess I used a lot more effort and more sentences. But the point is you have to present the idea progessively. Conjure up one image, bring up another, connect it and make it flow. Pace it out. Read it out. Read it it. Make it work.

Fucking difficult.

Fuck I can't do anymore.

No I gotta try.

Dirt clings to his sweating hands, veins bulging from the stress and showing blue beneath the grime. His breath comes raggedly in, deep, leaving quick as he works the hard earth, and the grind of steel and stone works hard into his bones. An intermittent breeze licks against the sweat and chills his skin as his muscles flex and beat the earth and tear through stone. Sweat builds and drips from his brow as he works in the predawn light and he wipes the slickness away with a callused hand.
He looks down at his feet. Below him, the hole he’s been digging this morning looks back up at him in all its aggravating inadequacy. His eyes trace along the battered earth from the work he’s already done to the next man down the line, and he grimaces at the impossibly large distance of the day’s quota. He absently adjusts his shackled ankle, tugs it gently against the chain, and lifts his gaze.
There are six of these chains stretching parallel across the length of the field, a man shackled every twenty feet in a staggered pattern, creating a hexagonal pattern of work that ensures a more thorough and rapid consumption of the earth. Around him, he watches the orderly chaos, the men working, and the men around them – watching. At the harsh word of one behind him, he wipes the sweat against his leg and raises the pickaxe. As the steel spike hits the ground, ripping dirt and rock asunder, he thinks to himself that these sons of deservedly sorry bitches in charge are some of the most vile, scum sucking pieces of homosapient shit he’s ever laid his far from virgin eyes on…but at least they’re efficient. He spits froth into the dirt and strikes again.
Dawn is soon to come. The light of the morning sky is growing quickly, the sun already risen above the Earth’s horizon and climbing steadily for the high concrete walls of the compound. The black shapes of vultures can be seen in the distance, circling and swooping above the spot of ground where the bodies are dumped, and the living imprisoned are glad at least that they can’t see the birds when they dip below the walls.
Yet all here want beyond the walls. And he knows this because here, a cage has replaced a world, and each day he watches the hopeful desire burn in their eyes as they gaze up at the sky, out at the world that teases them with its very existence, and away from the sun, which shines with benevolence upon a reality that is anything but.
But the walls are high and the pointed guns move along them, always. And the captors, who feed on food imported from places unknown to those who dwell within, also feed on the hope of the captive, for in their minds the expellant gasp of a life struggling and surrendering in finality to their enforced will is somehow a fuel to be enjoyed. And he knows this for he has seen with his own eyes their faces twist with joy in the face of misery, their eyes glaze over with malignance as they enact brutality on the helpless. A silent watcher, a patient victim, he has felt the rage burn inside him as this happens and prays for a chance to use it.



hmmm..

I liked that.

Fuck.

Ok I'm done.

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Smile

Ditch the cigs!!!!!!

Dr. Drew

d0pe fr33s+y13

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Silverleaf

snaps

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penny fl*me

Sir-Ex I like your writing flow a lot! Great Freestyle! I look forward to reading more of your stuff and to hopefully posting some things up myself.
I totally agree with Sir-Ex - writing is tough enough when sober let alone when you're flying. I'm a writer myself and work from home and I have to say that sometimes smoking really brings my best writing skills forwards - when other times I get as dumb as a pile of bricks.
I think it ultimately depends on what mind set you're in; if you're feeling pumped then you'll get work done, if you're felling lazy then expect to sit and do nothing lol.
Now if you excuse me - I'm way too sober to be in this forum lol ...