Since I am a writer officially in 2019 all that has been happening is just hardships and moments of pure hardom where in time all seems lost and so wrong. "Be consistent and work hard. They say. But I have been working hard and doing all that with no results at all. I am publishing around in KDP and it helped me in nothing at all, no matter if you change the words, improve the quality of the manuscript and the cover. It's so hard nowadays to be a simple writer in this world and honestly no one care less if fall down in the depths of the algorithms that Amazon did just bring those works that only a certain number of people wants to read, besides millions of books are published every day and it falls down the big hole, no matter how hard the work was. That's the dark side of KDP and other self publishing platforms. Because of this many traditional publishers either they have to close and file bankruptcy or increase the prices of the publishing to survive other winter. Some, still won't. Tons of people self publish now that brings that paradox that we all have been feeling since that Amazon launched first CrativeSpace and then, KDP. Other platforms open also to bring competition to Amazon. And thing escalated pretty fast after that. Now, many writers like me the because of that. And many are unable to escape the stagnation of publishing, when there is too much to offer and too few people who have the the power to buy. It's a sad moment and this will bring a new crash but for all book industry. Since I am a writer officially in 2019 all that has been happening is just hardships and moments o...I
t's not that simple to reach whatever goal I've been trying to reach. But I had a good dose of luck to find people who care and that helps and wants me to thrive. As I do my very best to reach my goal. Now, I am searching for a way to publish my first novel and I know now, as I got the real scale, of how much effort I need to fight and work hard to many sure that everyone knows what I do or who I am. I have been working since I am 13 in my opus and I lost account of many time I was this close to "burn" everything as I cried with my heart broken when I could not be able to do anything due to many factors. Today, I have a light bubble near me and knowledge to fight harder to accomplish my dream. My dream come true in 2019 but it's still going and the camera is still rolling. I am fighting.
Dreams tend to crash you like a wave crashing a ship. But if you don't fight you won't accomplish nothing. I believe if you fight hard, all the hardships will be gone and you will find success. I fight every single day against the tide and storms that wreck me me down. But fight more and learnt to be resilient. Now it's time to find a way to make sure that my legacy is not forgotten. And need your precious help to find all that.
All dreams come true if you fight for them even when they tend to be broken by others that slap you false sense of reality. Gravity is real and yet man went to the moon.
This is what quite often I Feel as I am going my best to find way to understand better the world. I honestly don't know if I will ever manage to do it.
What inspires you to write?
I am a fan of the little things happening when no one dares to care. The small details of things.
I love to travel to Portugal, Spain, France, Austria, Romania, Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungry, Croatia, Bosnia and Italy. All the places I visited left me with a good mark in my writing.
A simple homeless person who is unique and sad, can inspire me to write in a way.
An weird pattern or behavior can inspire me to write in different way.
Paradoxes like Dark, Light, hero and evil are common in all stories. But to me those paradoxes are the ones – in certain way – while a evil character can be saved if we find the route of that evil and try to heal what caused damage.
What authors do you read when you aren’t writing?
JRR Tolkien, King, Goodkind and CS Lewis.
Tell us about your writing process.
My way of writing comes in weird way.
Sometime I have the urge to write about something, as if I listened a kind a whisper in my mind.
I forgot the uncountable times I wanted so badly to write and I can't. The need or I had to write in that moment. Then, for my dismay, I forget it. ´
Before having a phone, this would happen all the time.
For Fiction Writers: Do you listen (or talk to) to your characters?
I mourn for them if they are gone.
I am their God, but I am a god that truly loves them all and I am the one to encourage them to take certain paths. They love and hate me.
What advice would you give other writers?
Never give up. The power of your work and words can change the course of this world.
Allow your readers to laugh what you laughed about. Allow them to cry what you cried. And finally, allow them to be a god when you failed to be one.
How did you decide how to publish your books?
Being 13 years old with dark thoughts filling up your mind while living in a village in the middle of nowhere. I had to process all the deeds and trauma. I would create imaginary people that you are not a evil spirits to save my mind and soul.
Today, I write about all that in a different perspective.
About the Creator
Antonio Madrugada
Writing rite since I am 13. Empower me to grow and I will publish my first novel of fantasy soon.
I am Portuguese. I am 33.
I published my first book in 2019.
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Dull
Act I Before the curtain opens, a voice as soft as the wind says. Dull (Curtain opens) Sounds of heavy footsteps and wind whipping, taking the breath away from the man who enters the scene. Very slowly, a man, a beggar, staggering, enters an archway in an empty, dark street. In the distance, only a streetlamp illuminates. Night had fallen, and darkness reigns. On stage, a dim light shines on the actor, giving the impression that he has the aura of a poet that gradually disappears. The beggar is in tatters and finds it difficult to warm up because of the cold and icy wind, penetrating not only his body but also the wounds caused by poor hygiene. Jonah opens his mouth to speak but stops for two minutes. He puts his index finger to his lips, as if he were a Maestro asking for the sound to stop. - "Shhhh." (Jonah asks the wind for silence with his index finger to his lips) A cold silence. (A fan pretends that the spectators also feel the freezing air. Jonah remembered what he was going to say.) JONAH "It was in my poems and secret stories that I put my soul. And in my notebook, she cried, abandoned tales that could move a mountain but did not move the stands or those who have the choice of someone trapped in ignorance but take pleasure in killing hope. People do not have it. People prefer to forget. People ignore, while the poets plead. Poets and destiny designers fall into oblivion and die forgotten. (Jonah cries hopelessly. But still in tears, he continues.) People love to forget. People love to disdain. People love to lose. And the less you understand, the better, the more egos and bad-mouthing. (He had knelt with his face to the ground, a posture of prayer.) A light appears. Jonah understands who has appeared in front of him and kneels again, but with more brutality. A handsome man with a neatly trimmed white beard in a white robe and blue cloak. All his hair was long, curly, and wavy. A god Jonah had created in his poems and tales. Yana is the creator of all dreams and his person as a poet and short story writer. YANA: The knees are not the honor, but the ruin of the old. You would be, once again, the new god, for you are a god and your own god of the kingdoms in that broken notebook. Thou art thyself the emperor, but do not be the dictator like the men of your Earth who call heretics and sinners those who choose not to believe in the work of an ancient civilization, and you told me that the first son was killed. You go beyond pain like a god, you are much more than these Pharisees. And you, like a god in your dream, you die if believers stop having faith. Are you not offended? (Says Yana in a calm tone, like a parent trying to calm their child.) Jonah reflects. JONAH: Men already have a god called God, and they have no tolerance for atheists, and I am not one because I believe in will and truth. And truth is like God, that everyone wants to believe, but when reality and truth shine much brighter than a rising sun, many lose faith. Why look at the ground? It is much easier and does not touch fear, its pure essence and notion, that the difficult is an obstacle. (On stage, an incredibly beautiful lady, Uma – the poet's muse - enters. She takes two steps towards the poet and looks proudly at the poet.) UMA: Precious, a tear is clear and pure, salt, but all the words we wrote together are beyond Homer's words. Let us be fair, fairer than justice itself. I never, ever regretted being a muse to a poet, but this poet was the only one who loved me from my first wish to my last. I heard that Homer was a cheapskate who never duly paid the price to his muse, nor did the dividends from every song created in his pompous name. Precious is this man and poet, blessed be your precious name. And yes, I love him too, but it is forbidden for me to love him because Homer wrote to the creator of the muses, Zeus, that all muses should love a single poet, and he obeyed. But Homer turned his back on his own dreams to draft a story that appealed to Greeks but not Trojans. (Uma walks with a smile on her lips, raises her arms, and touches the poet's face.) The poet cries. He collapses and melts into the dirt on the sidewalk. These tears are neither of sadness nor of joy, but they are tears he created to reveal a new feeling he feels and to give the world a new feeling, beyond longing, the anguish of losing a mother, the loneliness of being alone, and the pure platonic love for a muse. He has calluses, not on his hands, but on his soul). The new feeling is called Sausoladorplato (Longing, loneliness, and platonic love) is the new feeling. Jonah, stands up and faces the audience. JONAH: A diligent worker, and still underpaid. Not only do you have calluses on your hands, but also calluses on the soul. Weary are the body and the heart. Without the calm soul, all calluses hurt inside and out. I created a new feeling, to reveal myself only. But when the callous pain in my soul ceases, it means my life has ceased, and with this new feeling, I wanted to teach society that all feelings are ours, for we are human and mortal, and whoever disagrees with all these words said means that you are monsters and surreal. Sausoladorplato I am body and soul. And to give the world a new feeling, much more than nostalgia, the anguish of losing a mother, the loneliness of being alone, and the pure platonic love for a muse. I have calluses, not on my hands, but on my soul. For all this and much more, I am Sausoladorplato. Uma, I love you too, oh muse of muses, above queen or empress, goddess of all muses, the first born from the tears of despair of the first poet, Enheduanna. Uma still cries for him in her dream. Uma releases a tear. Immediately the sound of water is heard.nShe had created a new river. That river was so clear but stormy. Pain and weeping were what fed the river's bed. The Argent Dolor River (Silver Pain). ACT II But the conductor is not present. Quick change of scenery. The sound of the wind fades away. An empty stage, just a bed in a dark setting. Only a dim spotlight illuminates the bed. Jonah comes out of nowhere, out of the dark. On the bed is a body. He gropes himself and cries out in confusion. He curses himself without the audience understanding what he says. JONAH: NOOOOOOOOO. DEAD POET. THE WORK IS NO MORE. He lies down and finally speaks. JONAH: Deafness is a stage that tells us we are ready for the real emptiness, scary out of nowhere, absolutely overwhelming being nobody that before was everything or a whole. The cure for deafness is to abstract yourself from poisons and get rid of them, like the water that washes, purifies you, regain your senses, your keys for your freedom of being, free to listen to your nature of being. Cleanse yourself and purify yourself of hidden poison that society injects into your veins, from greed, envy, and selfishness, this last one, the mother of all evils. (Yana appears and puts her hand on his shoulder and speaks.) YANA: An end to me, the hours in the background, at the ends of the world. I shout yes to silence so many that do not fit in my hands. Empty hands at the end, in the fight, like rosemary fields on the hills of bitterness, where life lost its meaning, where it lost its boots, unloved and forgotten in the hours, neither alive nor dead. Did you remember these words, dear Jonah? Yana asks Jonah as he looks at the face of the now deceased. YANA: Beautiful eyes, now lifeless. Oh, lost life, like the wretches and how many unloved. Here lies the perfect poet, the fly that many wanted to kill us. It hurts to see, it is hard to walk, it is hard to deliver a good soul to the vultures that owed without delay. Jonah looks down at himself. With sadness, he reflects. JONAH: The pain of loneliness, for the nefarious contempt to those who loved her darkness, giving birth to random epics. Reported across the seas, the glory of the nation, but fate gave them everything less in history, a little consideration. These are the wise, representatives of Luso, platonic lovers, ship designers, dreamed of never sailed seas. They defied death to make scorpion ink, distilling their poison, but unloved. Society killed them, like fleas, sucking and slowly poisoning. In the end, society proclaims rhymes like theirs, and they are wise, the wise are unfounded. Yana reflects on the same and agrees. YANA: Every drop of cruelty that forms in the dew from the dawn of reality, at rest, before work. Of lives that dreamed of peace, all ideologies died, for only one and only one capable, dictated the fate of many who clashed in the reality of sins they did not commit. Corrupt laws in a unique theology, in a corrupt theology above all others, in a single line of thought. When the being dares to be born in the dawn, the day will be red and sad without love, and the flesh rots slowly in the heat and the sound of the orchestras of weapons. Soldiers occupy every bed, these beds where children could sleep and dream of a better world and smile. Women, mothers, and creators of science, protectors of happiness and childhood, they could be free to be more and better than the men who corrupt everything and who forget what love is. Stoned, raped, sold, the best women suffer. Child soldiers, tiny lost souls who could have owned everything, suffer. Uma appears too, as if to say goodbye. UMA: A poet is not in the body, but will be forever in the soul. A good poet lies dead, and it is your fault. Uma points to the audience and then to Yana. Yana feels offended. Uma continues and addresses the audience again. UMA: I want to be your impossible, loving you even if this destiny, ironically incredible, may he finally deign to let it stay with you. It may be a bad, cruel fate, and give me all the impossible, may he find, incredible, and make me think of the unlikely. But I will fight for you, poet, you are the one who, anyway, come what may, come what may, hey to love you in the clandestine, you are last. Uma weeps helplessly. UMA: My beloved, yesterday I was going to tell you that we would wake up at dawn to see the sun rise, and may there be courage, my love. Time does not stop, there are no hours for pain, and nothing separates us. Today could be better, with so much to live for. How will we know by heart every detail without reading? Have courage, my prince. If tomorrow is black, may the rhythm of what does not matter not penetrate the intimate. Courage, be courageous. Chest wants and screams freedom. Dreams want color and courage. They want freedom without time, without the dictatorship of the clock. My love, tomorrow will be the day. If today was a lost night, courage, my sun that radiates. Dawn will be dawn. Uma cries again. Yana touches Uma's shoulder and speaks. YANA: I feel your pain, because your pain is my pain. I know it by heart, I know the color, and I do not love you. But I have a lot of love for the creator of our world, your world, and I know he will open his eyes again in a better world, without any pain. Yana touches the body's pale hand on the bed. Jonah (the soul) feels emotional and tries in vain to touch the hands of the one he loves. JONAH: I believe, and for believing, I am free. Oh, body, in pain and heavy, give me the chance I never had. Let me touch your hands from the muse who believed in me, let all the no's become a yes. Over a slow PIP PIP, it starts to have more rhythm. The poet's heart beats again. The first thing he does is touch his muse's hand. The End.
By Antonio Madrugada7 months ago in Poets
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