‘Great ideas come and go. Execution hardly happens.’
I’ve spoken these words thousands of times. At one point I taped the quote on my computer. Forcing myself to take the book I was writing seriously. To ensure I wouldn’t fowl my intention. I did finish the book. And since that time I’ve written two additional books. I know one of them is not good. I also know the other is very good. However, I’m learning it doesn’t fit the current market.
I’m now on chapter five of a new project. And yesterday morning I pushed myself to again submit a batch of poems to a publication. The only shame would be if I hadn’t. I cannot be that man who says and never does. I cannot. I will not.
Finish your chapter. Finish your poem. Let it live. Once you’ve found completion you can relax. Submit your work. And submit it again. The feeling of rejection is art.
If interested, below is a link to the only book of mine that’s available online.
If you enjoy beer with your whiskey you may enjoy this story. It’s based on true events. The hardest working men and women I know drink. They’ll watch the foam slide down the glass and empty the contents and order another. Some are covered in mud and dust from working in the fields and other’s pull on their suit to be sure they haven’t wrinkled.
The first chapter is tough. Don’t Be A Sally is based on true events. Cheers.
Photo taken by me. Use your smart phone, kindle, laptop, or iPhone reader and click the link below to read the story.
Into the dark most will come. There wasn’t a dam and there wasn’t a nuke plant. Steam didn’t rise from the background and loom over the dam. I never stood on the dam with a flashlight looking for the body. I wasn’t asked why the valve wouldn’t shut. I didn’t learn to walk within the switch yard and the accident never happened. Into the dark most will come. Not me and not then and not now. My memories are my own.
His heart pounded in his chest and his ears rang. He was in hell. He was sure of it. This moment; with this feeling of sickness, and pure hatred for what he felt, was hell. Welcome to hell.
No vomit came from his stomach. No vomit came from his throat and no vomit came from his mouth. His mid-section wretched up and down looking like an October cat in a filthy dance. Up and down his body rose and nothing came out. Yet he smelt his own vomit lingering all about him. Again, he rose up, and again he produced nothing. Beads of sweat were on his forehead and it wasn’t long before they fell onto the surface of the tub. He lurched heavily downward with a massive cough and something came up. Something vile and red landed onto the tub’s floor. Black. He saw nothing but black as he slowly faded and fainted again.
The full story is published and can be found via a link on my profile. – M. Taggart
An excerpt from Chapter 1. ‘Don’t Be A Sally’ – Written and published by M. Taggart