Thanks

I emailed my english teacher to thank her for my helping me get my A, here was the response;

Hey pet I am so delighted for you.Above all my students I have taught you were probably the most sincere person down through the years. I never doubted you for once  you were always an A grade student even if you did not think so at times silly billy .You have a fantastic  flare for English, I hope the CAO is good for you . Have a great celebratory weekend pet .Call in to see me before you go to college . Hey dont forget our deal ,drop me your folder  just so I can photocopy some notes if you dont mind. Once again I am so chuffed for you Shane you deserve every percent of that A grade  . I am glad we had that chat too.I think I will go now and  have a glass of wine to celebrate with ya!!!!Keep in touch .

Why can’t all teachers be like this.

I want to write…

I love writing so much. It’s just pure imagination. The ability to create life with words, to build an entire world with words, to throw this creation of yours into conflict, build it’s history and fashion it’s tyrants all with words. That is true power and I love it.

But lately I’ve been unable to craft with words. I have a story, I know where it’s ending is and I know how it begins but the journey between these two points baffles me. It eludes me. I fashion conflicts and problems for my characters, I try to strengthen them but they cannot make it to the end. I’m not fully explaining myself, but basically my characters are either flawless or broken, I cannot seem to create a middle ground and as a result they fail me. They fall short of where I need them to be and my villains win.

One thing I have learned while trying to write a feature length piece, is how much it hurts to kill off or defeat a character you created. It’s amazingly foolish, but I find myself growing attached to these pieces of my imagination. Then ironically, I begin to loath the piece of imagination that killed off the former pieces. As a result the tone of my writing changes and becomes petty. Such a strange process this writing thing is. It’s so much more than just words. 

This post is silly really, which makes you silly for reading it and me even more silly for writing it. But I need to write and I can’t seem to think of a story to write and I have no desire to further my full length story. Perhaps this is writer’s block, what was the cure for writer’s block again? I think it was more writing. 

Oh and I take it back, you’re not silly, I love you really!

The fight that lost it all, but hey I still got bronze :D

“Next Two Fighters!”

I walk out, my opponent is at least two foot taller then me. What’s worse is I recognize him. He’s the same tall guy that beat me in a tournament in Birmingham almost a year and a half ago. I clench my fists, and perform the customary bow.

“Shane be up for it!”

“You can do this!”

“Come on Shane”

Adrenaline enters my blood stream and every noise fades away to a false silence interrupted only by the sound of the referee saying “Fight.”

I launch, as does he. We slam into each other before pulling back to take potshots with our kicks. He tries to catch my foot, cheeky git. I side step his punches and then out of nowhere, CRACK! He lands a blow right against my ribs I stumble back.

His point.

“Come on Shane, Don’t let him take it away!”

“Fight”

I launch again. More kicks. All aimed at his head. None connect substantially enough.  I drop my foot. Like a cobra he strikes with a punch. I catch his arm and give him a punch of my own.

My Point

“That’s it Shane, More like that!”

“Fight”

We’re both more hesitant now. Light blows and dancing around each other. Nothing serious, testing the air, assessing weaknesses. Then he strikes more forcefully, a chase. I try to counter, my hands slip. I try to kick and my footpad is ripped from my foot by his guard. Before I can recover he strikes me right in the head with a kick.

Three points to him.

“Fuck”

“Shane double your kicks, don’t let him through!”

“Fight”

I’m a flurry of kicks, I need to even it out. He backs away. I keep chasing. He’s waiting for an opening and I know it. My foot drops. Smash. Vision falters and I see stars for a second. Such a punch to the head, completely unnecessary.

His point.

“Shane, Don’t let him win it!”

“Fight”

I’m gunning for revenge now. I chase with my kicks, and then just when he thinks more kicks are coming I smash his chest with a punch of my own. His ribs heave against my glove. He falls back to the floor in pain.

No score, too rough.

“Time”

I lose 4-1. Still at least I got bronze.