Dear World

Please Kill Me,

It’s hard to write…the world doesn’t really want us to. Never has.

I don’t mean that in the classic “woe is me, the broken artist”-way.

I don’t mean it in the “God WHY do the muses evade me!?!?”-way.

Hell… I don’t even mean it in the “WHY CAN’T I FOCUS RIGHT NOW?!?!”-way.

In this particular form of the gripe, I’m referring to the fact that life is largely misaligned with what the craft requires. Time. Patience. Years of trial and error.

Even if we presume the best formative circumstances (…solid educational foundation, well-rounded and persistent reading, a college degree in a relevant field, etc.), the modern world isn’t quite built to rightly breed, develop, and support the classical idea of being an author, writer, linguistic liaison, word whisperer, muse-tingler (…or whatever sexy pseudonym you’ve given it). 

It just isn’t. I know that’s a tough pill to choke down, but bear with me.

As a caveat to this idea, let’s ignore the edge-case success stories that happen to catch lightning in a bottle for whatever reason. Let’s push aside the legacy authors, who’ve made their bones in a previous century. Let’s even ignore those (suspiciously?) fast-rising wunderkinds that appear out of nowhere (…doomed to sign on for a disappointing movie or series deal and are never heard from again). 

That may seem like a lot of negation, but those groups comprise about one percent of all living authors. For the remainder of us, this entire endeavor can be outright elusive, possibly insane, unstable, nerve-wracking, pants-shittingly terrifying, and (barring some ridiculous inheritance, rich/famous spouse, or outright societal rebellion) quite damaging to our lives (…both internal and external—there are more than a few cuckoo birds with Hugos and Pulitzers). 

To be clear, this isn’t meant as a pessimistic putdown, dismissive dissuasion, or bitter bereavement—but rather an acknowledgement of the situation as it stands.  I’m one of those CRaZy-TyPeS that likes to look problems in the eye… if only to find a solution (–or, barring that, drink until accepting there isn’t one). 

So, the world’s not built for us to pursue the craft we love. Fair enough. That’s the field. Not much we can do but mope, soil ourselves, and move past it…

—let’s explore the other options.

Do we find the full-time job and shoehorn some writing in when we can (…potentially falling short at the job and/or writing at such a frustratingly slow pace that the dream seems further away with each keystroke)? Yeah…that one gave me anxiety, too.

Do we find employment beneath our preferred level of comfort, struggling by with a low-stakes job, embarrassingly low wages, and fluctuating hours that could make, break, and deflate us by the petty whims of shitty management, or random restructuring, or (dun…Dun!…DUN!!!) replacement by the shit-poop stealbot that is AI? (…again, pants-shittingly scary stuff).

Do we lie, cheat, borrow, and steal while hoping for an unpromised miracle??? 

Probably not… HOPEFULLY NOT! (….if you have an ounce of dignity and common sense). 

More than likely, most of us end up burning the candle at both ends via some witches’ brew of the aforementioned shit-stews. 

Again, again, life isn’t quite set up for artists to thrive—it’s misaligned, and that’s the truth. It’s not an easy road. It’s not always a fun life. And (quite honestly) some circumstances will enrage, frustrate, and threaten to bury you more often than those drops of water in the desert (e.g., the occasional positive review, cool comment, share, or even *gasps* a SALE!!!). 

I don’t say this to dissuade you from an honest pursuit of the craft. I’m not complaining for its own sake or bitching and moaning about my own baggage. I’m stating this in the same way that a weightlifter might warn newbies about post-workout pains, or a dietician might warn about anal leakage or blockage, or a longtime marathoner may tell a first-timer about hydration and bleeding nips. 

(…sorry for the imagery, had to keep your attention).

I’m stating it because IT’S ROUGH OUT THERE. 

The WHOLE DAMN ROAD is ROUGH—at nearly EVERY PHASE. 

That being said, if you’re doing this for fame, clout, money, attention, status, or some mix of indulgent fantasies—I’d advise you find a crypto scam or something (…that includes AI “authors” (prompteers), who’ve largely found themselves knee-deep in a shit-heap of legal and professional problems).

For everyone else… 

For everyone who TRULY LOVES THIS…you’ll find the time. You’ll make it work. 

You’ll keep going no matter what anyone says because THIS is what YOU’RE MEANT TO DO. 

MISALIGNMENT BE DAMNED!!!

For you lovely-crazies, I hope you take this blog in stride and in the spirit with which it’s given—volunteered information with a grain of salt from an old(ish) brother with a little experience. It isn’t often that we get an honest heads-up or fair objective warning (…check Reddit if you don’t believe me). So, I’m passing along a few earned burns that may help you avoid a fire. Not to scare you, but to prepare you.

To you all, I say, KEEP ON! KEEP PUSHING… 

Keep finding those moments of mindful freedom that SET YOUR SOUL ON FIRE!

Keep illuminating those feelings with deep articulations that ONLY YOU could imagine!! 

Keep creating and thrusting bits of yourself into the world because THAT’S WHAT WE DO!!!

There’s no right way or real recipe for success, but if you REALLY LOVE THIS, you don’t really WANT or NEED one. Nor (I imagine) would you give a single shit if there was—because the WRITING is its OWN REWARD.

Misaligned with the world, but aligned with ourselves. 

—and GOD DAMN IT that’s GOOD ENOUGH!

(—just try not to be silly about it. Eat. Sleep. Pay your bills. Love when you can.)

If you can manage that, then maybe, JUST MAYBE, the other rewards will find you too.

Needless to say (but I’m going to anyway), your mileage may vary. 

Now OFF WITH YOU, YOU CRAZY BASTARD!!!

–you’ve got writing to do.

Until Next Time,

—Antwan Crump

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Kwame Nyong’o is trapped between worlds…

In the streets of New York, he faces the harsh, material realities of a modern city. However, in his blood lies an ancient duty: a spiritual calling passed down through generations, marked by vivid visions, recurring dreams, and violent seizures. Under the demanding guidance of his eccentric Uncle Mosi, Kwame is trained to navigate his visions and wield the tools of his ancestral mantle… but legacy doesn’t pay the bills.

***SPOILERS***

Desperate to ease his family’s mounting financial and medical burdens, Kwame uses his gifts for profit—the consequences are swift and profound. As supernatural forces threaten to destroy his life, Kwame must expel his demons while paying the price for warping his soul.

From the author of Apostate, Butterflies, and The Suicide Pod, Veal explores the intersection of the modern and the ancient, weaving an intense and unforgettable narrative that’s sure to leave a scar. For fans of Black Mirror, urban fantasy, and psychological horror.