An associate, who’s learned a bit about me, recently told me that I’m missing from my writing. “I” am missing, my voice. And he’s right. My heart’s not it it, no soul, no spirit.
I convince myself I’m focusing on the construction, the rules I’ve index and set for myself and it’s the mechanics that are the target of me honing my skills.
I suppose that means I can’t do both, write with voice, with passion and write with skill.
There’s that word I rarely utter and I’m absolutely certain I have never uttered it about myself — passionate. I just don’t fucking care. But it’s worse than that, I just don’t fucking care about not fucking caring.
It’s no bloody wonder there’s no voice in my words. I’m sure you have to give a shit to put voice into your words.
So, can I fake a voice, fake caring for a bit while I write, hopefully writing with heart, with soulful intent?
That sounds totally daft. Of course fucking not. That’s exactly the problem.
But listen to me now. Disgusted indifference — that’s what I called my state of mind. Am I passion about being disgustedly indifferent? And who the hell want to read such downer trash? Nobody.
Paige made stabbing motions at the center of his paisley tie, poking her unpolished finger into his chest. He finally stepped back from her attack. She kept at him. She’d spoken words, hundreds of them to his face. The made no impact. His dumbfounded expression blatantly told her he either would refuse to acknowledge her or her grievance. She balled her fist and this time, rather than poke him one more time, center-punched him using a taekwondo move where she thrust with her hips first, her arm following through. That caught his attention. Mainly because he fell backward off the balcony, six floors, landing face down on one of those short school buses. He didn’t even make a dent. It must have scared the shit out of the kids, the retar… the mentally handicapped kids being collected from the hospital’s daycare.
The guy deserved to die. He’d been an ass all his life, making everyone around him work that much harder to not piss him off. Paige looked over the railing. Kids were piling out staring at the blood that now dripped down the edge, sliding across those tricky windows that took two hands and two fingers each to raise or lower. Paige hated those windows. The guy probably had mastered those windows. She inspected her fist, wow, she didn’t know that rage could be so useful.
Rage writing. Is there a market for that?