“Overcoming Early Year Writers’ Inertia & some biographical data & musings about life (a few thoughts about the page & me)

2022 was the second year of published work on this page, & the first full calendar year of posts (The page started posting in Feb 2021).

In order to keep writing during the dry creative spell that naturally occurs during summer (in southern hemisphere) I will write a really easy post about this blog page.

Last year was a good year for this page. The views/hits were up about 30% and the followers up about 50%.

I posted 62 Posts vs 58 in the prior year. Outside the numbers, the highlights of the top of my head were

  • I wrote about 7 short stories & I think I have enough now for an ebook
  • The Poems could also be put into an e-book.
  • I made progress on my Novella “Marcell Atkins the 21st Centuries Brain Chip Hacker” (then half way thru I got into writer’s block as I realised my idea to finish the book was ‘too stock’. But luckily, I think I now have a solution – the main character will turn to ‘the dark side’. This also sounds a bit ‘stock’ but trust me it is less ‘stock’ than the first idea train. So now I must try to finish that remaining 20 000 words or roughly 10 chapters. I’m dreading finishing it. I’m afraid that it’s really really crap. But I must force myself to finish it anyway. I’ll go by the adage “All turds can be polished, and today’s turd may be tomorrows fertilizer”.
  • I wrote a few good songs some were derived from some of the poems, although some were from scratch. This page isn’t a music page, but I thought I’d mention that.
  • The podcast associated with this page was fun, but traffic slowed to a crawl. I think this is because the podcast platform was free & I was supposed to “upgrade to a paid plan” but I didn’t. Or it was to “Whack” and so people dropped off listening. Either way it was great to start a podcast & I have almost hit 50 Episodes (I think we are at Ep 48).
  • Regarding my writing – I am wondering if my depressive ways are a positive or a negative. That dark cloud hovers but I fear that I might be making the world a “worse place” for putting darkness onto a page. If the answer is “Yes” then the only right thing to do is delete everything. That would be hard to do. This is why I realised a good strategy is to always add a “silver lining” of sorts to writing. Perhaps that’s enough to save the writing & my sorry ass.
  • I live in a small town where nothing happens. Of course, that can be good – as this can in theory help production of work due to the ‘lack of distractions’ – but after 6 years of being back here I am worried I have become like a giant elephant attached to a tiny peg in the ground. I want a real friend who also likes writing and flinging ideas around. Not being neurotypical it is very hard being surrounded by ‘normal people’ who only want to talk about house prices all the time.
  • You might want to know I am 45 years Old – I guess this makes me ‘young middle aged’ or an ‘old young person’. I think I have reverted to being 27 since the age of 35. Prior to 35 I tried to be ‘Normal’ & have a ‘career’ etc – this resulted in burn-out & my current state of awareness which is to shun that fake world of false material promises. It’s a lonely existence but at least I’m not living in a cubical battery hen room any more wondering why things never come together. I wouldn’t say I’m happy but for a depressive I think I’m happier than I was back then. I think my life is productive in its own way & I am more content. I think I have got to the point where I could in theory attain something really good with my work.
  • My life is now devoid of women & I am like a monk. This is because women around here don’t really like arty types, & there is no women my age who are into the ‘alternative scene’. If there are – they are more likely that not to be ‘flakes’ that are faking creativity. Oh well, just as well I had a vibrant party life when I was in my 20s & 30’s. It’s ok to be shunned into ‘forced romantic retirement’. I can survive & it is better than a series of insane girlfriends.
  • You might not know it but I lived in Australia from 2005-2016 – I returned to my home town & I feel like that old life in Melbourne is like a ghost that haunts me. Not because it was ‘bad’ but because it is an ‘entity’ that still exists in my mind. I miss a handful of people from those years, & I kinda regret not making some ‘smarter moves’ – ones that would have set me up better. I know regrets are bad, & admitting them is worse but that is the truth & truth is important & powerful on the page. Unfortunately, errors & bad choices in anyone’s past, especially while they are inexperienced in life’s ways – happen because they were always going to. An adult must accept learning comes with failure & vice versa. But early mistakes & their first cousin regret still make poor dinner guests – you accept them politely but this doesn’t mean they don’t annoy you & overstay their welcome. These things that annoy us are a part of our sentence as human beings on this planet. I am no different than anyone else.
  • The above point makes me think how ‘individuality’ is kind of a con – ultimately are we not programmed in only a handful of ways? There is a theory that there are only about 20 different types of people. But we like to think we are ‘one in a million’ – it’s an ego thing. Our parents, classmates, teachers & physical environment (for they are the most important) can only screw us up in a few different ways.
  • I spent 11 years of my 44 in Australia – & I feel at least 25% Australian (adding as an aside).
  • I am annoyed I do not get any feedback from viewers of my page – one day someone will email me at martinantonsmith@gmail.com & tell me either my page ‘sucks’ or “is good”. I’d actually be happy if someone messaged me & said my stuff ‘sucks’. It’s better to have you work insulted than totally ignored. Hopefully this year more followers will happen & more work done & more real-world events I will attend & this will happen.
  • You might be interested that my bike rides in the country help me attain well-being enough to have the motivation to write poems etc. I think arty people ignore their health too much as if it is independent of their ability & longevity to create work. No wonder arty types die early – you can’t ever fool your body’s thermodynamic properties – it needs negative entropy supplies to thrive. Being a ‘stick figure clad in black’ is favoured for an artist, followed a distant second by the ‘pudgy dishevelled look’ – but that’s confirmative bullshit. You can look healthy AND do great arty things. (Clive James is an example that springs to mind – he looked like a rugby player & was well known in the 80s – I struggle to think of other ‘healthy looking well known arty types, which underlines my point).
  • as a “P.s.” to the part where I was talking about “ghosts of the past” – I wonder if the people that haunt me are also haunted by me as well? Mutual hanting seems to be a welcomed thought but also pretty sad as it suggests both parties were never mature enough to tie close ends. We humans can’t handle rejection & it corrupts us no ends – we torture ourselves for it. how ridiculous that is. I’m trying to get better at that. Honesty & forgoing ego should be practised as we age. But I guess the question that revolves in my mind – “Am I a good or bad person” won’t die down any time soon. Sigh.
  • Thank you for reading – attached below is a pic of me taken only a day or two ago. Take care & I hope to write something good soon. (Ah it feels good to have written the first content of 2023! I will celebrate with a beer & 90’s Rock. By The way – I wrote a Poem just after I wrote this so this blog entry – so it doing it worked wonders – read it here if you like https://martinantonsmithart.wordpress.com/2023/01/09/percy-mcwhirter-on-the-margins-of-life// )

(Picture: Scruffy Scruffy Me in 2023)

“Deadbeats Lament” (A Poem)

by Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

Sorry For Talking While You Were Interrupting

But When Push Comes To Shove You Shove Back

Yes, You Contributed A Lot

But You Took More than You Gave

Leaving Us All With Psychic Negative Equity

————————————

What’s That You Say? It’s Hard To Hear

When My Eardrums Ring A Deadbeats Lament

Am I A Human Or A Programmed Feeling?

But I Ended Up Painting, Not Walking

On That Derelict Ceiling

————————

The Psychiatrist’s Wet Dream That Never Leaves

I’m Surrounded By Kooks I Can’t Rebuff

Many Images Abound Through Broken Glass

My Life’s Full Of Cracks & Don’t Wander Backs

Are These The Unclean Spirits Of Frauds & Hacks?



			

“Arthur -The Mostly Monopolised Man” (A Short Story)

By Martin Anton Smith martinantonsmith@gmail.com

He got up on the ‘wrong side of the bed’,

Which was odd as his bed was against the wall.

It was a daily occurrence that he could not explain.

And in the end, he just accepted it, and it never registered again in his mind.

He was a worry-wort and his mind now turned to a cacophony of negative past & present memories….

He was told on countless occasions in his life that he had his ‘head in the clouds’,

Which wasn’t logical as he lived in the Arizona Desert.

Secondly, he had always had lousy jobs – why couldn’t he dream?

His Boss always told him he was ‘penny wise & pound stupid’,

Which couldn’t happen as he used US Dollars.

And with his life being what it was – why couldn’t he escape a little at the track?

An old broken-down teacher used to embarrass him in class by singling him out saying he was as ‘mad as a hatter’,

Which didn’t make sense, as he despised hats.

When he came of age, he knocked on that teacher’s door.

When the door opened, he lunged forward and put Mr Turnbridge’s head right through an old hat – Laurie & Hardy style.

He then walked casually away from the doorstep of his startled & trembling ex tormentor.

As he left he casually said “It’s a perfect fit Mr Turnbridge – don’t you think?”.

Once a Strange New Zealand accented lady told him to ‘pull his finger out’,

Which confused him greatly as his fingers were all ‘dangling free’.

He yelled back at her “No one cares about the Lord if the Rings – You ugly rube!”

These ghost memories from the past were starting to get to him, and he now wore a quizzical frown.

An old man walked by and shouted “cheer up son – it may never happen”,

He was perplexed as he was not sure what the old man thought what was supposed to happen.

He probably shouldn’t have thrown his boot at that old fella. It hit him square in the back of the head and his false teeth fell out on the pavement – much to the horror of his now fear shaken wife.

He stopped and sat on the kerb by the train station as his emotions welled up from within him.

The ’emotional dam’ burst & he started to bawl his eyes out.

The self-loathing induced by these avalanche-like reflections always become far too much to handle stoically – especially now he was older.

He couldn’t handle the ‘Panzer Division’ of regretful thoughts that were increasingly invading & interrogating his soul.

Then some baby boomers walked by on the way to the train station.

He overheard the old man whisper to her:

He doesn’t know whether he’s Arthur or Martha”

On hearing this he suddenly spring-leapt off the kerb, arms out.

Arthur had totally forgotten his wife Martha had instructed him to be home at 6pm sharp.

At 6pm Arthur & Martha would sit together & do the daily crossword.

Arthur didn’t think he could make it back in time,

After all it was 5.55pm & he was currently 5 blocks down, 3 across from home.

When he got back it was 6:07, he opened the door sheepishly & tip toed into the lounge.

Martha was on the mottled old couch with a crossword, staring at him as an angry schoolteacher would a problem-child.

She rose off the couch, standing militarily upright and shouted with hands-on-hips at him:

“Arthur! Your late! I’m stuck on 7 Up and 1 Across!”

“Sorry but it couldn’t be helped -What’s the Clue dear”?

Arthurs simple cheery reply had now halved Martha’s disappointment. She spoke:

“Two words 10 letters: to waste time, especially by being slow, or by not being able to make a decision”

“Oh, that’s easy – its ‘Dilly-dally'”, said Arthur wisely.

On hearing this Martha suddenly spring-leapt off the couch, arms out.

“Oh Arthur, you’re a real good-un, a ray of sunshine, a modern miracle!!”

Arthur simply smiled, as once again ‘domestic serendipity’ had shone its light upon him.

He made a pact to himself to never be on time again, not that it mattered – he never was anyway.

He resolved to continue to be a fool, a waster & a lolly gagger, but also always be kind to Martha.

After all – It was his destiny, and the proof was cryptically written in the funny pages.

And most importantly – his wife was happy, for now.

But Arthur knew his luck wouldn’t last – it never did.

For sooner or later Martha would tire of crosswords & pull out the Monopoly board.

Then he’d feel his anxiety rise & have to excuse himself & go for a walk,

For even the most confused Dilly-Dally-er’s grow tired of ‘landing on jail’, Sliding up & down snakes & ladders & Professor Plum’s silly murder plots.

As he walked along the pavement the ‘Panzer division’ of anxious thoughts re-entered the battlefield.

After 5 blocks Arthur about turned and frog-marched himself homewards.

“Martha likes to play Cluedo at 9” he told himself.

With each step closer to Martha & home, the ‘Panzer Division’ incrementally retreated, and disappeared entirely.

He opened the creaky door.

It was 9:09pm – which for him was right on time.

Martha was sitting at the dining room table with the Cluedo set unfurled.

She lit the candlesticks.

“About time Colonel Mustard”, she said dryly.

“How right she is” thought Arthur as he walked over to the lounge.

The next day it was all over the news, and police, media & detectives flooded the house.

Diana the quiet next door Neighbor who never talked to them since moving in 3 years ago, had raised the alarm after hearing her blood-curdling scream at 10pm.

She was not that surprised he had snapped so suddenly.

She has seem him walk by late so often and so strangely and always with great anxiety written on his face, & usually in tears.

‘Colonel Mustard’ had done it with the Candlestick in the Lounge in a psychotic rage.

In the trial he testified that he had become frustrated during the game with his wife, over a small matter of whose turn it was.

He said he believed he did it due to PTSD which he had suffered from since serving in Iraq.

The jury gave a reduced sentence of 2 years for Manslaughter, due to considerations of mental impairment caused from PTSD, and they allowed him to serve the sentence as home detention.

As George was being led away from the dock, he felt relieved.

His low-key reclusive lifestyle & a largely clueless small-town jury had swallowed his story hook line & sinker.

He had served in Iraq but on the day of the landmine attack on his unit’s convoy he had been transferred to another unit than morning.

George left in a Humvee in the opposite direction only 45 mins prior to the deadly & also PTSD inducing explosion.

The Army Paperwork of his transfer had the wrong date – the following day.

The jury had no reason to think he was not there on the day of the explosion, & his fellow Vets who were

there that day, or were members in his ‘transferred to’ unit were never going to rat him out.

He had ‘got lucky’ on account of sloppy paperwork and timing of the transfer.

But he knew he’d lied to society, ruined his life, taken a life and lost the only loved one he ever had.

He’d still have to live with himself, & he could not ever deceive himself as easily as he did the jury.

Later George would tell the truth, but only on his death bed only 18 months later.

Guilt is a powerful force, it riddled George’s body with Cancer with such swift force doctors could do nothing.

He died at home while still serving his sentence, in the same spot where he’d sit for so many hours and

play board games with Martha, and only a ‘board-games length’ distance from where he’d murdered her.

He’d finally got his comeuppance, as also shown by the frozen expression of a giant frown on his now dead body’s face.

The old man coroner had never seen one quite that big in all his career.

“you can’t cheat life” he muttered to himself, which was a favourite expression of his.