Amateurs

America this country was built by Amateurs. George Washington was an amateur and I’m pretty sure he lost more battles than he won. The underground railroad was run by Amateurs. Lewis and Clark were Amateurs. Most our boys who stormed the beaches of Normandy were Amateurs and had never seen battle. Neil Armstrong was an Amateur he had never landed on the moon fuck no one had. Bill Gates, Amateur, started making computers in his mom’s garage. Amateurs have always been the explorers and trail blazers into the future and are immortalized as courageous resourceful Amateurs who like Han Solo Amateur are never concerned with the odds. I am and Amateur. Fuck didn’t even spell Amateur correct. I am the king of the run on sentence and couldn’t put a semicolon in the right place if you put a gun to my head or offered me Brazilian whore. But like my Amateur forefathers who sailed to this country and stole it from the Indians I am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

Four fucking years ago I started writing. I have filled over four composition notebooks, and lost even more. Four years ago I decided to try my hand at writing and when I say try my hand I mean go straight to the top. Like the phoenix I knew I would rise from nothing and have everything I want out of this life. How did I know I would get it? Faith. But not faith in God, Allah, Buddha, or the others. You have come to the wrong place if you want religion. All I will say on that topic is respect people’s religion.  But people with religion, it would be nice if you guys would keep it to yourself and stop dragging the rest of us into faith-based wars.  I had Faith that I can do anything I put my mind to. Faith that I am an unstoppable force. A rouge wave of pride, courage, intelligence, resourcefulness, kindness, respect, sexiness, and a fucking Virginia Gentleman.

Am I different? Yes, but we all are and there is something magical about that. We all have gifts and burdens. But a gift is only a gift if used wisely and our burdens are irrelevant; we all have them and it’s all relative. What counts with your burden is how you carry it. Do you let it break you or do you walk tall and take it in stride. No one is perfect not one fucking one of us. The only thing that we all have in common is faith. Some have less and others more. Anyone can do anything in my world and you should join me America.

I wanted to be a writer. My reasons are mine, but I wanted it and I fought for it. Four years of basing my head against a wall without even shaking it. Four years of my family saying you’re a ridiculous fool. One even said “A writer I just saw a box of books on the sidewalk there is no money in books.” My friends said it was hopeless while others just said nothing. No one said I could do it and I gave two fucking shits. I had faith and that is all you need. It was a lonely road and if I said every day I was confident it would work I would be a liar. Night after night I thought of other ways to use my time. Thought of the odds. Calculated the costs. Gauged my ability as a writer. Good story-teller and worst typeset, and grammar idiot on the planet. I didn’t care I had to try. But not try that is what losers say I had to succeed.  Don’t survive thrive.  I have never been stopped by any force and damned if I will stop now. I hired and fired 19 editors. One even held my draft ransom saying “This will make money I want to be partner.” Told her to stick it up her ass with a candle on it and rewrote it.  However I did take it as a massive compliment. Then I found a girl who worked well with me and got what I was going for. Weeks we spent rewriting and editing the run on drunken madhouse which is my writing. Even more time spent writing this blog which I use as a litmus test for my tales. Over 140 posts and 30 never got posted. Hours, days, weeks, months, years, four years of nothing. I realized I didn’t just need an editor I needed an agent. Over 300 NO’s America. 300 emails I sent out looking for help and all came back “Thanks for your interest in our company. We enjoyed your writing but it is not for us. And sorry for this form letter” So I decided to self publish and did it through createspace.com and amazon. This was well received and America was kind enough to give me a 4.6 out of 5 rating for my very rough first edition. I also had more help from my ladies. A group of loyal assistants who liked my blog and wanted to help. Part time amateurs but they helped me write my form letters and showed me the language of marketing a book. One even went further and helped me get my foot in a door with an online publisher. I submitted my draft and they sent me a contract. I then had to hire an attorney for a grand to tell me what the hell the contract said. He helped me make some changes and we conference called with the publishing company. I sat back and watched him work and he got it all. Every fucking thing I wanted from that contract and they agreed. Now he is writing the final draft and when it’s done I will sign.  Hopefully they will still sign and a brick came out of the wall I had been bashing my head into. I now can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Just a glimmer, but that is more than I have ever had. I fucking did it America and I’m an Amateur, dyslexic, tech theatre and creative advertising college drop out. I have been thrown out of every school I have ever been to or suspend for five years and I fucking did it.

What one Gentleman can do another can do better America. With Faith in yourself. When your back is against the wall, your cards suck and your almost out of chips you can still win. You just have to play your hand right. Whatever you want out of this life America you can get. Anything is obtainable America you just have to fight for it and fight fucking hard. A little rum never hurt either.

Now stand by for the official announcement of me becoming a published author America. I’m going to shake this fucking world.

 

And to all my friends and family.  SUCK MY WELL ENDOWED COCK i MADE IT YOU DOUBTING CUNTS.  And Dad wish you could have seen it.

 

Long Live the Writers

Oceans