Holy crap! Has it really been two and a half weeks since my last post? What a slacker, eh? Writers beware - this is a profession that easily sucks you into a) procrastination (like we need any help in that area anyway, right?), b) slackerdom (my own word - different from procrastination in that a slacker actually DOES something albeit in small quantities), c) self-esteem issues (again, like we didn't have those to begin with...), and finally d) panic mode (brought on, of course, by the aforementioned big three...).
I suffer all these yet I write. The key is write. How the hell many times do we have to be told this? I visited Ann Rice's FaceBook page and she's on there repeating the mantra. I even friended 6 people (mainly because when I clicked on "like" as I've done hundreds of times on other peoples comments, a box popped up asking me to friend the 48,000 people on her FB page). 4 people actually friended me back! I have no clue who they are, but I'll be finding out soon I suppose.
What is interesting are the two who did not friend me. One in Texas wanted to know when we met and the other clearly and concisely told me it was apparent we did not know each other but we are currently writing back and forth on each others wall because she is interested in my connection to writing. I may have actually made a friend. Too cool!
I have to answer the one who wants to know when we met. I'd hate to have her think I was a one night stand she had while bingeing or something of that ilk. On the other hand, I've never been a one night stand. This might be the closest I ever come... Hmmm. Ethical dilemma...
Back to the post at hand. Creating content that drives people to read you is tough. You must step out there and make yourself vulnerable to criticism. This is something that comes very hard for me and I'm sure many others. If you can't do it, you need to move on. I've tried to be the nice, vanilla kinda writer that doesn't offend or challenge people negatively. No one wants to read my shit. That's the bottom line. Yes, I put the word "shit" in there on purpose. What a rebel, eh?
Post consistently. Find your niche and invite people in. Crap! That's precisely what I'm missing here! I haven't invited other writers to my blog. Oh yeah, I invited people, but not specifically writers. I must do this. If you are a writer reading this, then that means I'm doing what I need to do.
Hub Pages has been my most successful outreach to writers. I need to get out there and write more articles. I also need to promote like by fellow Rogues Gallery Writer - Rebekah Hunter Scott. Check this out. She landed the following radio interview scheduled for May 2nd. Here's the link: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/esteemyourself
It's stuff like that a writer must do to get recognized and sell books. Consistent blog posts are another. I need to post like Rebekah - two to three times a week. I also need to write something that grabs. This is good advice for all writers. Step out of comfort zones and safe places. Hey, if they throw tomatoes at us, at least these days they're virtual tomatoes, not nearly so messy...
As promised, I will be posting the next portion of The Cold Bite of Autumn this week. Come back and see if I'm as good as my word...
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Monday, April 26, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Writer's Hell
Writing can shove anchors down your "lazy-spine". Lazy may be unkind, but what else do you call it when you simply don't pull up your desk chair and write? Is there any other descriptive?
The reason most people do not write quickly becomes a scenario of intrusive tasks like taking out the garbage and repairing that window that's been busted for the past three years. Marriages improve and relationships blossom. Spouses and significant others revel in your new career because all the sudden you spend more quality time with them.
Then the dark clouds form over your eyes, and a crazed gleam gets caught flashing out at the world and you've transcended from marital or relationship bliss into Writer's Hell. That place where you know you need to write - in fact you MUST write - and you've created a daily routine that brims with duties and obligations that quarantine you from any appreciable writing time. That's Writing Hell.
Writing Hell then becomes a series of critical comments from significant others who do not understand that the next 2 to 14 hours get your mind body and soul with no time for food, kisses or even the neanderthal grunt. Deadlines loom and pressure builds as brain cells and synapses fire off like a 4th of July extravaganza. You perspire and fear for the circuitry in your keyboard and your mouse slips from your sweaty fingers.
Most of all you find your brain contains nothing intelligent except old algebraic formulas from 10th grade. Irritability sets in as significant others (including children, pets and small flying insects) attempt to distract your last remaining grip on 'the muse'. A pencil dropped in another room sends your ass skyward and your slippery hands to the doorknob. A fly buzzes your head like a low-flying jet and defensive maneuvers cause you to miss the doorknob. Your nose attempts to french the wood door and gets no love in return. Fury sends you into a Fred Flintstone beating of the door as you scream out the names of your loved ones in the hopes of detecting the location of the offending pencil dropper.
Suddenly the door opens causing you to levitate backwards for a moment with surreal images of books and chairs and computer screen glows panning across the scene before everything accelerates into the pain of the spike of a callously kicked off high heel impales a kidney and the cry of a mortally wounded soldier escapes your lips despite your urgency to appear sane and be able to avoid a Baker Act.
As they help you up from the floor your eyes glisten with the moisture of inspiration. Your nerves tingle and goosebumps decorate your arms like tiny armadas sailing off to war and your spirit soars as you shoo your rescuers out the door in the interest of genius about to be unleashed on the electrons staring at you expectantly from your monitor.
Ah yes, it's the writer's life for me! And Writer's Hell? A figment of your imagination like its cousin - Writer's Block. This day stands tall for this writer and the multitudes that will revel in his creation...
The reason most people do not write quickly becomes a scenario of intrusive tasks like taking out the garbage and repairing that window that's been busted for the past three years. Marriages improve and relationships blossom. Spouses and significant others revel in your new career because all the sudden you spend more quality time with them.
Then the dark clouds form over your eyes, and a crazed gleam gets caught flashing out at the world and you've transcended from marital or relationship bliss into Writer's Hell. That place where you know you need to write - in fact you MUST write - and you've created a daily routine that brims with duties and obligations that quarantine you from any appreciable writing time. That's Writing Hell.
Writing Hell then becomes a series of critical comments from significant others who do not understand that the next 2 to 14 hours get your mind body and soul with no time for food, kisses or even the neanderthal grunt. Deadlines loom and pressure builds as brain cells and synapses fire off like a 4th of July extravaganza. You perspire and fear for the circuitry in your keyboard and your mouse slips from your sweaty fingers.
Most of all you find your brain contains nothing intelligent except old algebraic formulas from 10th grade. Irritability sets in as significant others (including children, pets and small flying insects) attempt to distract your last remaining grip on 'the muse'. A pencil dropped in another room sends your ass skyward and your slippery hands to the doorknob. A fly buzzes your head like a low-flying jet and defensive maneuvers cause you to miss the doorknob. Your nose attempts to french the wood door and gets no love in return. Fury sends you into a Fred Flintstone beating of the door as you scream out the names of your loved ones in the hopes of detecting the location of the offending pencil dropper.
Suddenly the door opens causing you to levitate backwards for a moment with surreal images of books and chairs and computer screen glows panning across the scene before everything accelerates into the pain of the spike of a callously kicked off high heel impales a kidney and the cry of a mortally wounded soldier escapes your lips despite your urgency to appear sane and be able to avoid a Baker Act.
As they help you up from the floor your eyes glisten with the moisture of inspiration. Your nerves tingle and goosebumps decorate your arms like tiny armadas sailing off to war and your spirit soars as you shoo your rescuers out the door in the interest of genius about to be unleashed on the electrons staring at you expectantly from your monitor.
Ah yes, it's the writer's life for me! And Writer's Hell? A figment of your imagination like its cousin - Writer's Block. This day stands tall for this writer and the multitudes that will revel in his creation...
Monday, November 16, 2009
The Cold Bite of Autumn (pt. 9)
Once in the car, Samantha shrugged off the oversized coat with the floppy hood. Walking was out of the question for a while. Somehow, Daniel had requisitioned crutches for her and they left the hospital in plain sight - she in a wheelchair and Daniel pushing, toting a doting husband's compliment of suitcases, crutches and make-up bags.
She had to admit he could be very resourceful. Where he came up with all the loot she never figured out. A good field agent would do the same. This worried her. Daniel promised to be more than he appeared.
We're headed for the mountains, in case you're wondering," Daniel said as the car woke to his key.
"Don't tell me. You just happen to have a cabin up there."
"No, but I happen to know someone who does and they won't be using it anytime soon."
"Do you make it a habit of barging in on other people's property like that?"
"Only when I need to. This is a need to situation." Daniel turned the radio down to a whisper and asked, "Why'd you kill them?"
"They had turned."
"Money?"
"Does it really matter?"
"I suppose not. How long had you worked with them?"
"Four years."
"Why aren't you lying? I thought you always lied."
"What's the point? I only lie when I need to." Samantha shifted in the seat. Her ankle ached from all the activity during there 'escape' from the hospital.
"So you decided to go out with them. They must have meant something to you."
"Bastards. They welcomed me into the group. We were going to be rich. No one could touch us. Let the world go to hell while we all sit back, drink heavily and fuck like rabbits."
"Were you tempted?" Daniel glanced her way. She felt his eyes study her face.
"Yeah." She lowered her head and muttered, "I was tempted."
"What made you decide to do the job. I presume you infiltrated them for that purpose."
"I gathered information I couldn't live with."
"What kind of information."
"Now you want me to lie. Let's leave it at money, alcohol and sex wouldn't be enough for me to be able to live with myself. They were into something nasty."
"Fair enough - for now. We'll need to hole up a while for your ankle to heal."
"What about you? You appear to know way too much about my line of work. What's your story?"
"I kill women."
She shot a glance his way then felt her face flush when she noticed he'd seen. "Ok, that's funny."
"No really. I don't lie. Women seem to die around me. I suppose it's my engaging personality."
"How do they die?"
"Not by my hand. They all seem to ... have issues. Drugs, pimps, agents, husbands. You name it, I've seen it."
"A dead babe magnet, eh?" She smiled for the first time.
"It ain't all that funny lady."
She had to admit he could be very resourceful. Where he came up with all the loot she never figured out. A good field agent would do the same. This worried her. Daniel promised to be more than he appeared.
We're headed for the mountains, in case you're wondering," Daniel said as the car woke to his key.
"Don't tell me. You just happen to have a cabin up there."
"No, but I happen to know someone who does and they won't be using it anytime soon."
"Do you make it a habit of barging in on other people's property like that?"
"Only when I need to. This is a need to situation." Daniel turned the radio down to a whisper and asked, "Why'd you kill them?"
"They had turned."
"Money?"
"Does it really matter?"
"I suppose not. How long had you worked with them?"
"Four years."
"Why aren't you lying? I thought you always lied."
"What's the point? I only lie when I need to." Samantha shifted in the seat. Her ankle ached from all the activity during there 'escape' from the hospital.
"So you decided to go out with them. They must have meant something to you."
"Bastards. They welcomed me into the group. We were going to be rich. No one could touch us. Let the world go to hell while we all sit back, drink heavily and fuck like rabbits."
"Were you tempted?" Daniel glanced her way. She felt his eyes study her face.
"Yeah." She lowered her head and muttered, "I was tempted."
"What made you decide to do the job. I presume you infiltrated them for that purpose."
"I gathered information I couldn't live with."
"What kind of information."
"Now you want me to lie. Let's leave it at money, alcohol and sex wouldn't be enough for me to be able to live with myself. They were into something nasty."
"Fair enough - for now. We'll need to hole up a while for your ankle to heal."
"What about you? You appear to know way too much about my line of work. What's your story?"
"I kill women."
She shot a glance his way then felt her face flush when she noticed he'd seen. "Ok, that's funny."
"No really. I don't lie. Women seem to die around me. I suppose it's my engaging personality."
"How do they die?"
"Not by my hand. They all seem to ... have issues. Drugs, pimps, agents, husbands. You name it, I've seen it."
"A dead babe magnet, eh?" She smiled for the first time.
"It ain't all that funny lady."
Monday, November 2, 2009
Creating Product
Fiction's Footsteps is an interesting project. I'm attempting to write it without using notes or outlines. I just look at the previous post and continue the story from there.
Plot twists could spring from anything that may have happened during a day in my life. The unpredictability of this project could make it somewhat less than satisfying, but it may surprise and deliver a story we can sink our teeth into.
The Cold Bite of Autumn explores my ability (and lust) to create an alternate world that is accessible to most people and a joy to write. So far, I am encouraged by the writing. My writing is in need of overhauling so much, I fear when I click the "Publish Post" button.
No writer wishes to create product that stinks. Hell, we all dream of writing the "Great American Novel. Realistically speaking, most of us have a ton of work to do.
I will continue to create product, post it to this page, and hope that someone 'discovers' me and finds the fiction palatable and especially enjoyable.
Plot twists could spring from anything that may have happened during a day in my life. The unpredictability of this project could make it somewhat less than satisfying, but it may surprise and deliver a story we can sink our teeth into.
The Cold Bite of Autumn explores my ability (and lust) to create an alternate world that is accessible to most people and a joy to write. So far, I am encouraged by the writing. My writing is in need of overhauling so much, I fear when I click the "Publish Post" button.
No writer wishes to create product that stinks. Hell, we all dream of writing the "Great American Novel. Realistically speaking, most of us have a ton of work to do.
I will continue to create product, post it to this page, and hope that someone 'discovers' me and finds the fiction palatable and especially enjoyable.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
What I Need as a Writer
Nothing like the pressure of the social networks to get a writer going. Once I posted my daily word count on Facebook, I nailed the lid of my excuse coffin shut. I exposed my desire to produce daily to the world. Is anyone watching? Most likely not at this point of my career. I'm about the only one all worked up about it. I have been unwilling to produce much in the way of new material for quite some time. Now I must produce daily.
Why?
Because I have pride and I desire to succeed. To succeed as a writer, get this - you must write! What is the one thing a writer struggles to do on a daily basis? Write. Crazy, isn't it? We are a strange lot. I haven't received any input on my "Cold Bite of Autumn" that I'm creating here and only here on my blog.
I'm sure that doesn't necessarily means it's shit, but writers can psyche themselves out and believe all kinds of nonsense like that. Or is it nonsense? I find it interesting that writers slave away at their (our) words with no real hope of anyone really taking them to any high level. I personally don't write to be shallow. I'm definitely not writing for market or I'd be making more money, so what is in this gig for us?
My reward is accomplishment. I may never be considered a brilliant writer. I've read brilliant writers and I'm here to tell you most are not published. That is the unpublicized aspect of writing. Those writers who can wrench your gut out most often squirrel their manuscripts away in a closet and hide behind a low self-esteem or a fear of failure/success mindset.
I've listened to people's writing that ripped my soul and I've watched sadly as they convince themselves in every way possible that they could never make it as a writer. They become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Sure, even thought their writing is pristine and powerful is no guarantee of success, but they have material most of us would die for!
I've attempted to encourage them to step out and make their writing public. To take that chance and put themselves out there for the world to see, but I've also seen years of negativity having beaten them down. Years of people saying both verbally and non-verbally that they will never amount to anything significant.
What really kills me is that the people who often become "significant" have no real claim to fame or intelligence other than the fact that they are willing to expose their creativity to a world that has a voracious appetite for creative material. There is so much weak writing in the world today that I am positive I fall in the upper half of the crap pile. I could be way up there. I may never be able to gauge where I stand in the avalanche of writing in this world, but at least I know I'm in there giving it the ol' college try.
This little blog is brought to you by: "Buck up! YOU could be the next Rowlings, Grisham, Hemmingway! Don't let the world beat you down. Grow some balls! Get off your ass! Get out there and make something happen! One day you'll be dead."
Why do I write THIS day? Because one day I'll be dead. I hope to continue my little story, "The Cold Bite of Autumn". I sincerely hope I'll develop a following. If it's only you, that is all I need.
Why?
Because I have pride and I desire to succeed. To succeed as a writer, get this - you must write! What is the one thing a writer struggles to do on a daily basis? Write. Crazy, isn't it? We are a strange lot. I haven't received any input on my "Cold Bite of Autumn" that I'm creating here and only here on my blog.
I'm sure that doesn't necessarily means it's shit, but writers can psyche themselves out and believe all kinds of nonsense like that. Or is it nonsense? I find it interesting that writers slave away at their (our) words with no real hope of anyone really taking them to any high level. I personally don't write to be shallow. I'm definitely not writing for market or I'd be making more money, so what is in this gig for us?
My reward is accomplishment. I may never be considered a brilliant writer. I've read brilliant writers and I'm here to tell you most are not published. That is the unpublicized aspect of writing. Those writers who can wrench your gut out most often squirrel their manuscripts away in a closet and hide behind a low self-esteem or a fear of failure/success mindset.
I've listened to people's writing that ripped my soul and I've watched sadly as they convince themselves in every way possible that they could never make it as a writer. They become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Sure, even thought their writing is pristine and powerful is no guarantee of success, but they have material most of us would die for!
I've attempted to encourage them to step out and make their writing public. To take that chance and put themselves out there for the world to see, but I've also seen years of negativity having beaten them down. Years of people saying both verbally and non-verbally that they will never amount to anything significant.
What really kills me is that the people who often become "significant" have no real claim to fame or intelligence other than the fact that they are willing to expose their creativity to a world that has a voracious appetite for creative material. There is so much weak writing in the world today that I am positive I fall in the upper half of the crap pile. I could be way up there. I may never be able to gauge where I stand in the avalanche of writing in this world, but at least I know I'm in there giving it the ol' college try.
This little blog is brought to you by: "Buck up! YOU could be the next Rowlings, Grisham, Hemmingway! Don't let the world beat you down. Grow some balls! Get off your ass! Get out there and make something happen! One day you'll be dead."
Why do I write THIS day? Because one day I'll be dead. I hope to continue my little story, "The Cold Bite of Autumn". I sincerely hope I'll develop a following. If it's only you, that is all I need.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Writing Enemies
Yes, writers have enemies. Our most formidable foe is ourselves. We run from our work like children from daily chores. Any excuse is acceptable if it relieves us of the duty that writing brings to us each and every day.
Idiocy, if you think about it. What do most all writers claim? "I LOVE to write." Yet we avoid doing it with distractions apparent and subtle. We play Spider Solitaire or War Craft. We decide the hedges we loathed trimming are now our most important priority.
Why? Why can't we simply sit down and do that which we know we love? I believe this fundamental question is what separates the Wannabe writers from the Gonnabe's and I Am's. I'm writing a paper called Wannabe's, Gonnabe's and I Am's.
Wannabe's talk about writing. They have great ideas for that blockbuster novel, the one that will sell millions of copies and land them on Oprah. They dog writers groups and established writers looking for that magic formula that will translate their words into gold. There's a home run waiting on them if they just swing that bat hard and true enough.
What Wannabe's don't know and often never get past is the fact that they are the PITCHER not the batter. Nothing happens, no ball gets put into play until they throw out that first pitch. Without a product, the Wannabe is going to die on the vine.
Let's not be too hard on the Wannabe though. All writers were Wannabe's at one time in their life. It's a stage that must be traversed. A writer must listen and learn and transition from the Wannabe stage into a Gonnabe.
The Gonnabe is a writer who actually begins to get it. This writer starts to get serious and sits down and puts words to paper (or electrons to screen). This writer still doesn't know quite what is involved, necessarily, but he/she pushes on, hopefully with a clear cut goal in sight.
It's critical that the Gonnabe completes a book. Too often the Gonnabe bogs down and switches to another "great idea" because the one being worked on has fizzled. Often, the Gonnabe deserts a project that is very close to a completed manuscript. In any case, it is a heck of a lot closer to complete than beginning from scratch.
The Gonnabe has to pursue writing with a more rabid mentality. The Gonnabe has to establish a "hell or high water" approach to completing projects. How the Gonnabe achieves this is not so important as simply attaining a draft manuscript. THEN, the Gonnabe has to weather the fact that he/she must go through many revisions, edits and rewrites to tighten up the original work.
This process, if approached from the right mindset, is very rewarding. As the Gonnabe works and works and works the manuscript, it becomes a living entity no longer needing life to be breathed into it by the writer's hands. Often, the Gonnabe gets sick and totally disgusted with the manuscript and just wants to move on to the next project. Here is where the Gonnabe must stick it out and polish the manuscript to its greatest potential.
Once that is completed, the opportunity presents itself for the Gonnabe to realize the transition to I am. I am is a tenuous pinnacle. It is far to easy to slide back into that Gonnabe stage where many projects make him/her feel like they are progressing but actually they've become stagnant. Or worse, the slide can go all the way back to Wannabe where all they are doing is talking writing.
I am is defined by confidence and a writing regimen of some sort. Without consistent writing in some way, shape or form, the I am is doomed to slip back. One advantage the I Am has over the other two is the knowledge that they were once there and can get back again.
I've run this gauntlet and I'm ready to get back to that point where I am producing once again. I slipped back to Wannabe for a while. I let the excuses build - I'm working so hard on Toastmasters, Publishing, running two other businesses in addition to working, taking care of four children, leading two writers' groups, chair a board of deacons at church and actually paying attention to the woman I love.
A near death experience (very, very near death) catapulted me to pursuing my writing dream. Michael Jackson's untimely death is another moment to contemplate. Forget whether we like him or loath him, he was my age. MY AGE. We were born the same year. He is dead. I have not achieved what I desire to accomplish in the writing world.
Therefore, I must pick myself up from my Wannabe ass, kick it into a Gonnabe gear so that once again I can realize I AM AN AUTHOR! The great writers get here and stay here, at least from my perspective. Once a writer defeats himself (his own worst enemy), he then has the opportunity to do great things. This is my rant, and you have heard me!
DarkThorn
www.michaelrayking.com
Idiocy, if you think about it. What do most all writers claim? "I LOVE to write." Yet we avoid doing it with distractions apparent and subtle. We play Spider Solitaire or War Craft. We decide the hedges we loathed trimming are now our most important priority.
Why? Why can't we simply sit down and do that which we know we love? I believe this fundamental question is what separates the Wannabe writers from the Gonnabe's and I Am's. I'm writing a paper called Wannabe's, Gonnabe's and I Am's.
Wannabe's talk about writing. They have great ideas for that blockbuster novel, the one that will sell millions of copies and land them on Oprah. They dog writers groups and established writers looking for that magic formula that will translate their words into gold. There's a home run waiting on them if they just swing that bat hard and true enough.
What Wannabe's don't know and often never get past is the fact that they are the PITCHER not the batter. Nothing happens, no ball gets put into play until they throw out that first pitch. Without a product, the Wannabe is going to die on the vine.
Let's not be too hard on the Wannabe though. All writers were Wannabe's at one time in their life. It's a stage that must be traversed. A writer must listen and learn and transition from the Wannabe stage into a Gonnabe.
The Gonnabe is a writer who actually begins to get it. This writer starts to get serious and sits down and puts words to paper (or electrons to screen). This writer still doesn't know quite what is involved, necessarily, but he/she pushes on, hopefully with a clear cut goal in sight.
It's critical that the Gonnabe completes a book. Too often the Gonnabe bogs down and switches to another "great idea" because the one being worked on has fizzled. Often, the Gonnabe deserts a project that is very close to a completed manuscript. In any case, it is a heck of a lot closer to complete than beginning from scratch.
The Gonnabe has to pursue writing with a more rabid mentality. The Gonnabe has to establish a "hell or high water" approach to completing projects. How the Gonnabe achieves this is not so important as simply attaining a draft manuscript. THEN, the Gonnabe has to weather the fact that he/she must go through many revisions, edits and rewrites to tighten up the original work.
This process, if approached from the right mindset, is very rewarding. As the Gonnabe works and works and works the manuscript, it becomes a living entity no longer needing life to be breathed into it by the writer's hands. Often, the Gonnabe gets sick and totally disgusted with the manuscript and just wants to move on to the next project. Here is where the Gonnabe must stick it out and polish the manuscript to its greatest potential.
Once that is completed, the opportunity presents itself for the Gonnabe to realize the transition to I am. I am is a tenuous pinnacle. It is far to easy to slide back into that Gonnabe stage where many projects make him/her feel like they are progressing but actually they've become stagnant. Or worse, the slide can go all the way back to Wannabe where all they are doing is talking writing.
I am is defined by confidence and a writing regimen of some sort. Without consistent writing in some way, shape or form, the I am is doomed to slip back. One advantage the I Am has over the other two is the knowledge that they were once there and can get back again.
I've run this gauntlet and I'm ready to get back to that point where I am producing once again. I slipped back to Wannabe for a while. I let the excuses build - I'm working so hard on Toastmasters, Publishing, running two other businesses in addition to working, taking care of four children, leading two writers' groups, chair a board of deacons at church and actually paying attention to the woman I love.
A near death experience (very, very near death) catapulted me to pursuing my writing dream. Michael Jackson's untimely death is another moment to contemplate. Forget whether we like him or loath him, he was my age. MY AGE. We were born the same year. He is dead. I have not achieved what I desire to accomplish in the writing world.
Therefore, I must pick myself up from my Wannabe ass, kick it into a Gonnabe gear so that once again I can realize I AM AN AUTHOR! The great writers get here and stay here, at least from my perspective. Once a writer defeats himself (his own worst enemy), he then has the opportunity to do great things. This is my rant, and you have heard me!
DarkThorn
www.michaelrayking.com
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