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SoCalShordie

SoCalShordie

Bluelight Crew
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Nov 3, 2021
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I’m writing a book and wanted to post a lil passage I wrote yesterday whilst sleep deprived from being a mom who’s 8 months pregnant and has a toddler to run around after all day lol. I wanna see your writing too!! Post that shit hoes!


‘Tumbleweeds journey through the wasteland with the Santa Anas, passing endless tract homes and paper towns. A sliver of moonlight peeks through the black lit canopy. Girls who are nobody's daughter disappear into the desert night, treading the riptide where good girls go to die. I was reborn here. A phoenix risen from ashes, resilience forged in flames. This place nearly killed me, but I find such beauty in it all. Late summer tangerine skies, clouds the color of cotton candy. On the endless stretch of road to nowhere, I felt like I belonged. How can a place that tastes of sulfur smell of sweet orange blossom at the same time?’
 
SoCalShordie said:
I’m writing a book and wanted to post a lil passage I wrote yesterday whilst sleep deprived from being a mom who’s 8 months pregnant and has a toddler to run around after all day lol. I wanna see your writing too!! Post that shit hoes!


‘Tumbleweeds journey through the wasteland with the Santa Anas, passing endless tract homes and paper towns. A sliver of moonlight peeks through the black lit canopy. Girls who are nobody's daughter disappear into the desert night, treading the riptide where good girls go to die. I was reborn here. A phoenix risen from ashes, resilience forged in flames. This place nearly killed me, but I find such beauty in it all. Late summer tangerine skies, clouds the color of cotton candy. On the endless stretch of road to nowhere, I felt like I belonged. How can a place that tastes of sulfur smell of sweet orange blossom at the same time?’
Click to expand...
Is this the beginning of your book, or something taken out of the middle?
 
:unsure:
^
~~

I like the passage very much because it reminds me of my echos of the past and the water of waves in the mosaics of time in the cemented layers. The layers of sands of the mixed tides.
In the dark cool moss waiting for the pineapple sun.

that is all


it does bring me back though
 
Yeah.... I would, but I wouldn't want anyone to steal my ideas. As far as how long my book is it's about 429 pages.
 
A guy I sometimes mail with and who is a published writer said it's hard nowadays to get long books published (and sold). When your story or whatever is long, it's always better to turn it into a duologue/trilogy/ series.
 
lecroute said:
A guy I sometimes mail with and who is a published writer said it's hard nowadays to get long books published (and sold). When your story or whatever is long, it's always better to turn it into a duologue/trilogy/ series.
Click to expand...

You can just publish it yourself on amazon

My sister did it, but of course her book is pretty lame. I actually haven't read it (though my girlfriend has). I'm hardly averse to reading, but the subject matter is not interesting to me.
 
The steady beep of the heart monitor cut through my morphine-induced haze, each pulse a grim reminder of my mortality. I forced my eyes open, squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights of the ICU. A tangle of wires snaked from my chest, tethering me to a array of blinking machines.

"Mr. *******?" A nurse's face swam into view. "How are you feeling?"

I tried to speak, but my throat was raw from the breathing tube they'd only recently removed. I managed a weak nod.

"You're very lucky," she said, checking my vitals. "This is your third open-heart surgery in two years. Most people don't get so many second chances."

Lucky. The word echoed in my mind as I drifted back to sleep. I didn't feel lucky. I felt like a prisoner – to this hospital bed, to the drugs that both saved and damned me, to the relentless craving that even now whispered promises of sweet oblivion.

As consciousness faded, a new thought surfaced, small but insistent: This time had to be different. Somehow, I had to find a way out of this cycle of destruction. But how?

Little did I know, the answer was already taking shape, waiting for me in the most unlikely of places – an online forum that would become my lifeline and the first step on a journey of transformation I could never have imagined.
 
Ruined, itchy fragments of skin could be pulled off to cleanse uncleanable ugly patches of injury where shapes used to tell a story. The inner soul without as a withered and dried dandelion plucked and laid across the space where a garden of eternity grew. Something ugly, something evil, some cheap camera filming a perversion of what should be a simple passing day.
 
A field of orchestral scythes, a silent song of cutting victory into a crop of ceaseless weeds.
 
You sound so much better as I'm extracting your teeth with pliers and cutting your tongue out of your mouth. That crimson feminist flower falls like a wet bloody fish out of the dark red hole in your face, spattered with enamel and bone you are truly painting the roses red
Painting the roses red
 
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