Anonymous asked: Hey! Just curious. As a writer yourself, do you find it hard to forge friendships with other writers?
Yes. I have one writer friend and he serves as my de-facto editor.
Am I a reasonable man with a good understanding of ownership, copyright, and intellectual property.
Which is why it sucks I can’t do anything about a recent discovery.
An idea that I created (but have no legal ownership of) and have done a considerable amount of original work with is being lawfully hijacked by a past employer.
What I will say is that my original idea was pitched to this person as a graphic novel based around a few original ideas I had inspired by Dante’s Inferno, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off & Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody.
The last part being the most important, and eventual title of my work, “Beelzebub Has A Devil Put Aside For Me.”
All-in-all, as many things are, the project fell flat after awhile due to lack of interest on my part and workload (it is a lot of work to make a comic book.) After many months of working for this duplicitous company, I wrote a resignation e-mail and left.
Several months later, in 2014, they announce a comic anthology based around Queen.
Oh well, I’m not one to rest on previous ideas, past accomplishments, or strangely spiteful business moves against a single insignificant person. It is just a bummer. A Judy Moody Bummer Summer.
You can’t own an idea, you can’t copyright a thought, or claim ownership on a pitch. I never owned the words, the title is a creation of Queen, and my idea was a summation of many thoughts and previous ideas into one.
The best I can do is a be a little bitch about it, and whine that my “idea has been compromised” by a company with literally no standards for quality. The shit this company has produced…my god.
Oh well I say. Oh well indeed.
Writing today? Yeah me too. Let’s get some work done.
What are you writing?
This was my piece I read at Kenyon University’s Writer’s Workshop over the summer. I finally managed to edit it and upload it.
I’m reading this in front of 80+ people, editors and readers for the Flannery O’Connor Award, Kenyon University Literary Journal, and others. It was a huge honor and something I’m still proud of today.
Watch the video and enjoy.
The officer sat
on the chair,
Down cold snow-stretches
of our bitter time,
By double increment,
They spun, sewed, cut,
— till by and by for the opening
of the Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia,
Sidney Lanier was born at Macon, Ga.,
on the third of February, 1842.
Wrecked regiments reel therefrom;
Proves her launched for one sole issue,
armed and engined for the Tall Bush
yet keeps its substance green —
I want to get back into this again. I’ve been gone awhile. I’ve got a lot of cool things, and although the poetry book never came to light for reasons that extend beyond quality.
So I’m opening up the dialogue. Tell me what you’ve been up to, I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to, let’s talk about writing and books and poems.
I’m more than happy to read your work, let you know my opinions. I’m probably not going to be giving overarching poetry advice because I’m in no way qualified.
But yeah, let’s fucking do this. Let’s be friends again tumblr.
horror comic in the works, nearly finished. be excited because it is amazing.
Twin Peaks + House of Leaves
Gestures No.1: Ephemeral, by Matthew Erman & Lisa Sterle.
So this is the start of something big for me! Weekly comics, I’m thinking that I’ll try and upload every Thursday. They won’t be related at all in any way probably, and the content may end up being bizarrely different from one week to the next. I might actually be making some big stylistic changes for the next comic, so we’ll see how that goes.
So yeah, I hope you enjoy! More to come so check back soon!
I. The Sphere
On a porch is a 400lb. sphere.
The sphere dips
on the right side
where three teenagers took
a Louisville Slugger
and tried to crack it open.
II. The Clerical
A homeless man sits across the street
from the sphere. He sits
in a wicker chair, the fray
on the arms is noticeable
and sometimes his legs bleed
because stray pieces stick into him.
He is missing his left eye.
No one asks him what happened.
He was in the war.
No one knows which war,
because no one asks him.
He watches the sphere every day at three.
Sometimes he watches it because he is bored
and other times because he is drunk,
but most times it is
It doesn’t roll though,
it moves as if it were on a conveyor belt.
The dent in the side
where the teenagers hit it,
and sometimes the dent isn’t there.
The homeless man
sticks his finger
into the sphere.
He sees the hole
and put his index
and middle finger inside,
and he feels around,
searching for something familiar
and sharply he pulls it out
and there is nothing there
but he feels something cold
and it doesn’t move
but he moves back to his porch
and falls asleep.
V. The Dead Kingdom
When he wakes up
he is in a black forest
and he is reminded of something
he’d read once
and he isn’t sure what it was
but he is reminded.
The forest growshorrible splinters;
Fox gullys and astral trees, long oak stranded
pointed upwards vying for sunlight
these gorgeous birds, forcing down
dead prey, bloated, territorial.
and the grass is bleeting blue
and wet yet it is familiar.
Across the valley there is snow,
on a dead hill
and beyond that it is red
and that sphere sat in the distance
on a house in a deep holler,
past the splinters.
Near a rookery, where several animals
gather in ceremony.
VI. The Grand Marquis
As he walks forward
and his feet hurt
and he washes them
in water flowing from a cracked well
near the base of the hill,
a house sits above him now
and the sphere as well.
He sits down and he moves
like on a conveyor belt,
he moves and falls
into a depression in the ground.
He feels himself moving down
and somethingbecomes steeper
and the hill is further away
and the sphere is red
and the hole is gone.
When he stops moving
in front of him
isa female nude, wearing her
hair like the armor of a Myrmidon.
Standing in front of an impossibly
large gate, blacked by the light
coming from behind.
She is holding a sphere like
this terrorfying lance
like a bloody spear.
He goes to touch her,
elegant as her body spits tanged
whips of tension, watching her muscles
move underneath her skin
like fish beneath the surface
of a murky brook.
The sphere, she holds in her
left hand, and on her right
she points upwards to the
She is warm to the touch
& his hands knew only love for a brief,
Her eyes are coral,
they meet and he knows
her deepness, her infinite mass,
pushing in and out unable to contain
whatever it is that rests
beneath her eyes.
Rock, cut oceanic gorgeous
Lips, long hair
Roads, open mouth. A sign, minor;
In an instance she; thewoman
takes his throat, gripping it with her right
hand, no longer pointing at the star
and inside the homeless man’s throat
Myrmidons.”:She has no tail he thinks.
VIII. The City of Dis
With his throat dripping
She let him go
past the gate she stoodbefore.
and the gate had words on it
that felt familiar. Words he’d seen
before or again, heard lost in some
Has a Devil
So two weeks ago, I was in the middle of getting my ass handed to me by the one of the best writing workshops in the world. The Kenyon Review Writer’s Workshop, a week long “bootcamp” that focuses on production as opposed to revision.
Not only did come away with eight starts to promising stories, but I came away with a knowledge that I’d never have, accumulate, or acquire from any other source.
It left me feeling entirely aware of my presence in the writing world, minuscule, infinitesimal to the grand scheme of things. I realized I had no business offering advice to writers, struggling or not. My ideas of success, and learning have been so skewed that until I actually participated in something that wasn’t alternative education, I had no idea.
My advice to everyone, seek out some form of formal education, if not college do some workshops, if not workshops take some online courses, if not that then read some books. You need, desperately to stimulate yourself with someone who knows more, and Kenyon Review left me revitalized but ultimately aware of how little I actually know.
For these reasons, I won’t be doing formal critique, or serving as an “advise” columnist. I’ll be happy to talk individually about things, but I don’t won’t be offering up some inflated sense of knowledge.
I’ve been outrageously busy, hopefully will be giving a big update over the weekend, as well as responding to all the back-log of questions I’ve received. I haven’t forgotten and if you sent something and haven’t gotten a reply, you will.
In hether holly groves, a purpose
means holding out trembling
hands, readings grown like Hemlock.
Morning in fashions fitting of Green
perfume, that like grass or hay,
or the telling scent of dead leafs.
The cough of the soil here
is contagious, as is an itch
left by a million starving bugs.
Although I am technically here for “FICTION” I do intend to sketch some poems here and there. I did two today. Here’s the first one I wrote as I sat on a bench in front of Finn House looking out across the Gothic campus.
Ward st. He, terrace green
oh, potted flowers, quarterly waiting
It is summer in Gambier dreaming
dreaming dreaming of violent snow
of peculiar rainfall in absence of lovlier
Well, I’m here in Gambier, at Kenyon University, as a writer and officially I am the least qualified person here. Everyone has a college degree, an MFA or is a professor.
and then just lil’ old me with a highschool degree :(