How To Write Successful Fiction

Where to start? Where to start? …If you cannot pull fantasy from reality, click on a clothes website or some porn now because I will be wasting my time…. I’ll wait until your granny porn page has loaded……. Okay, now those losers have skedaddled, what I am going to tell you will help you come up with some amazing ideas and can also sometimes beat writersblock, as it always works for me.
I go outside!!! I know; I know we’re writers and some of our best ideas happen inside – On the crapper – after sex or masturbation over all of our granny porn (Jokes!) But to be possessed by an idea that will fester as an incurable disease within you, you will have to live. And within my experience all of the monsters live out in the big bad-ass world; so I make myself bad-ass to fit in and fill my mind.
Pick something that you have done in within your life or something you do. An idea could be running away from home (I swear this is how I usually start my ideas; not with a craptastic idea like running away, bear with me, I will make scene. A slim line between genius and madness remember…. Jeez!)
So where can we go with that? Well perhaps you begin on running away or you ran away time ago and it’s time to return…. RETURN FOR REVENGE! THEY TOOK WHAT YOU LOVE; A MILLION GUNS, FIVE MILLION DEAD BODIES, ONLY ONE MAN AND ONE PURPOSE! ….Sorry…. I really mean that; my mind wanders most of the time. Okay, back on track.
Well you can have unfinished business or have someone you love or something you need.
What we have so far is…. “You ran away; it’s time to go back home for _____?” This is what I like to call general fiction, it’s not real and never happened but you want to write it.
Now I know it makes sense but here is the tricky part; YOU DON’T WANT TO WRITE GENERAL FICTION, DO YOU? YOU WANT DRAGONS OR VAMPIRES AND FAIRIES IN YOUR TALES.
But you have a small outline of what is going to happen within the story. If you are female within your story; you can possibly be a princess who ran away because of your abusive father the king, he helped drive your mother into a grave and some other bad-ass shizz’.
So from that I can see. A young girl running through a dark wooded area, her dress is being ripped by the twigs like witches elongated fingers. She is bawling her eyes out. She needs to out run the image of the castle in the background because it is only a reminder what her father has done. SWEET! (You need a good imagination to be a writer. Some have it, others don’t, sorry, that’s the way the world turns… If you can’t write Fiction, I am sure you can get a job writing granny porn…. Haha!)

– If you are a writer you must think as yourself as a God, not thee God, but a God who is willing to make and take life. – Alexander Kennedy. –

Now as a writer I am putting faith in you that you know about character building and building tension and other things. Well as our character has had a bad spurt within her life, it is now time for her to leave the weak ways of princess-hood and become a warrior woman. And the only way that will happen is if you break her thought processes within the story. (No, I am not going to fill in all the gaps for writing a good story… Jeepers! The idea alone is pretty good, a bad-ass version of Snow White. Booya!)
But you can end it with her, I don’t know; riding on a huge dragon that she met on her travels of womanhood and they are best friends. She attacks from the sky while her love interest is on horseback with an army from a rival country to destroy the castle and her evil father.
In reality that story could be a teenage girl runs away from home because her father’s a dick, so she meets some friends and with their help she and her gang go back home to retrieve her clothes, or something boring like that. Yes, reality does depress me slightly, that’s why I live in a far away world.
So there you have it. Use your own life to write any genre of fiction. ALWAYS! ALWAYS! MAKE SURE THAT PEOPLE CAN RELATE TO YOUR WORK WITHIN THEIR LIFES. Great works come from others experiences because people can see themselves as the characters, remember that.
I actually use this method for all of my work.
Try it out or if you are having trouble. Email me or something and we can talk and will help you develop your own idea. (Don’t worry I don’t steal, it’s tacky, stupid and shows you have no talent.) But I am here to help.
Oh…. And the simplest ideas are always the best, writers’ nowadays over think and complicate their stories and that’s why when people read their work all they get is “Well, it was okay, one time is enough for that story…” Pfft…. Write your heart and fingers silly people; lit agents – certain doors and greatness await you.
This has been a psychotic announcement from Alex Kennedy.
Keep those pens busy….

 

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Medicine Time

The walls are closing in on me, time to expand my mind again; my last defence against the grim pace of life. I have finally put the knife down and picked up a pen and a handful of pills, cracking open my skull and throwing my brains at the paper, so this world can call my writings masterpieces. This master of writing is laid in pieces, broken and sobbing naked in the corners of the living-room, hiding from the knocks of the door, rocking backing forth.

I can be a pain killer,
Now watch me grill-up these chickens,
Wherever I be, weed suspicions be in us,
It’s a lot me similar to David and Goliath proportions,
Saving Private Problems,
Raging rhyming destroyer,
Wait until I get hold of,
All this weight I hold on my shoulders,
My soul dominates these golden-gates,
So…. Game over!
Courage and Knowledge mix with hate is a bonus,
Anticipate for another brain donor,
I should just escape to my other persona,
Cause I do love no one,
The world is sick,
Time to give it its medication,
Red ribbon wrapped with exhilaration,
Reward myself, a pill I page in,
Suppose to look after this commonwealth,
And still I am a patient.

Stick to what you know, so I am glued to this pen and paper and surrounded myself with memory photos of pain. I am not sure if these feverish tablets are making me sweat, or if I am crying; still not sure. Tomorrow I will be less of the same man! I can’t handle the wobble of sanity, my fingertips grip on the verge; I will plummet into insanity with my arms wide open and be engulfed into the darkness. Here we go again!

The Serial Killer

I am going to show all of the sane-snappers worldwide, my megalomaniacal world.
I guess introductions are necessary at this point, my name is Sally. This is my fifth Vic’. I would like to believe I am doing a public service when killing. There are not large job openings in either sides of my curriculum vital, on one side, my normal job title of TV reporter, advanced literacy conqueror, mother to my little girl, Grace; wife to my beloved Alan, a police officer for six years, seven months and fourteen days. Upon the other side of my page, written in invisible blood, I am a psychopathic murderer.
He lies hogtied in his stripy boxers on the motel bed, wriggling, baby-like; unable to shuffle his little toes just yet. Not yet found his big-boy voice to cry for his mommy, the pervert’s mouth is duct taped; I drew a smile over it in black felt-tip. How dare he anyway think I was streetwalking bimbo; who just came here to fuck the dark memories away, how wrong was he? My dark memories are about to fuck him.
I stick him in his podgy belly with a box-cutter; he groans under his voice in pain, his eyes shut trying to remember a few minutes prior to the cut.
“Stupid little man, I ain’t no prostitute and I certainly ain’t no business venture you can finger fuck over with your board of directors, overtake a small company and leave hundreds of people not only fighting for their jobs, but also money and food to keep their families from harm. This is your judgement Terry Wilkinson, CEO of the Formed Electrics Empire. You make billions off business investments and liquidizing smaller projects assets. And here we are a corrupt billionaire, a motel room and a killer.” I theorize.
I fix up my disguise in the finger-printed mirror, black gloves on, contact lenses and wig. From my jacket I reveal an item wrapped in a black cloth, I place it ever-so gently upon the dresser. And duel my reflection once more.
“Imagine, Terry, a plethora of teeth chattering, heart cupped, fear gulping saner’s, saners are people, which would inevitably be someone like you. Now this mob is being chased, about to be mort by a maladroit soul who is swinging an axe; he is chopping down people who are slow on the foot. This type of psychopath is what I like to call Fire-holders; these fire-holders have always had a problem with society, thinking they have been wronged in some fashion and have to take their angst out on innocent people. Their mental health problems have always been known by everyone within their path of life. Now an ice-holder like me is the person who befriended you years prior to this act of an attack with axing; came round for beers and dinner, basically loved you. But hold your thoughts right there. Within this evil event, I am the person who would suggest hiding within this room where the lock is on the inside, I turn the key and put it within my pocket and reveal my own axe. You see, where the fire-holder only gets a handful of victims, I will get a roomful. I am smarter. I am.”
He begins to shake his head, I believe he wants to get something off from his chest; hopefully it’s his heart; if I remove the gag he will scream as if he was a teenage girl losing her virginity.
“Why are you shaking your head, Terry? Is your head going to fall off? Don’t worry, you will not be forgotten within this world, I want the whole world to know you were killed here in this poggy room, and still you are shaking your head. Here, let me give your head a head-start.”
I pick up the item wrapped in a black cloth and unfold it. An old knife rustic knife lays silently on the material, it has been over used and sharpened so many times, the wonder is, why hasn’t it been trashed by now?
Wrapping each one of my fingers around the handle, I march for a war of wrath against Terry, taking the knife and dragging the life from his throat.
Silence is the scream within the night that screams back around.
Nothingness has his grasp around my trembling hands and vacant eyes. The blood treacle’s from his void, spraying the sheets and carpet red. I wrap my weapon back in its cover, putting him to bed. I made sure I touched nothing and maintain on doing so. I retreat from the chalk-scene and blood-spatters into the danky bathroom, pubic hair toilet rims and used condoms in the bathtub.
I open the bathroom window and making sure no scuff marks are left, I exit cat-like. I do not close the window, the less I touch the less I am likely to be caught. I have no ties to this man; it will look on the news as a sex scandal gone wrong.
Over the brush I travel, not looking out of place, hood up and on a one way mission towards my car which is a thirty minute walk away. I take my high heels off and plonk them in a homeless man barrel fire, no shoe prints. I make no face contact with the homeless man; he was drunk anyway so his testimony is invalid.
I get into my beamer, sitting in my seat, putting my head back while I listen to Otis Redding – Dock on the bay.
I am a killer; I never thought as a child I would amount to anything, now all I do is scare the streets to staying in at night, an old west scenario, when you rolled into town and they closed their doors and shutter windows. I didn’t want any of this to happen but once I started it was for the greater good for my own benefit and now it’s a solution to stop people to find out who I am and what I’ve done. I feel so crippled with this anger of shadows within me.
I know now, I am here from this world’s amusement and disobedience; I am a walking, talking Frankenstein monster, they made me and now they can’t control me. I am worse than any terrorist, thug or nuclear weapon because I know who and truly why I am killing, I put the effort in to know how these people will die in a precise way and I follow no one’s plans. You can call me evil, scum or inhumane but my mother branded me as Sally.
I’m twenty-seven years old and I’ve lost count on how many people have crossed my path and lost their future in some diabolical way. Someday I will take my own life, but before I do I would like to tell you my story, but with every story there is a beginning and an end. So let me take you back to the warm summer in Clayford, a small suburban community in the Mid-West. It was nineteen ninety-seven, I was thirteen years old when my soul was taken from me, my father had a rough time at work and I was the one to blame, I was the one who helped his anger process really get loose, the office banter must have been my fault too. That’s when he and his friends came.
I laid belly flat on that ground, burning ants with my magnifying glass. I was a really goofy looking kid and that wavy brown hair was nothing to be proud of. She rolled by on her pink bike with entourage, Lauren Burns, Her dad owed Burns hardware store in Town. She will always live within my memory as perfection. She will always be my first love and first victim.
I’m getting a little too far ahead from head. I think I will leave my coldblooded thoughts to rest in peace for tonight, I do not wish to tell you all my tales, straight away, you’re a stranger. Perhaps another night we can continue.
But for tonight I am going home to spend time with my little Gracey before her bedtime; I like knowing the world has one less corruptor within in. I will sleep well after Alan time. Goodnight and I will be seeing you soon.

All About The Crazy Writer – Alexander Kennedy

Three Finished Manuscripts – Several More in the Works. At the moment, I am not represented by an agency.
First-off I would like to thank you for stopping by…

I write because words are all I have; I’ll out-rightly out write you because you write what is rightly right!

My name is Alexander Kennedy, I am 30 years old and live here in Kingston Upon Hull, England with my Fiancé – Cacilia, and my Three Year Old Son Alexander (Jr) A.J. for short. As a young “Mental Challenged” teen I quickly developed a love for rhyming words (Aspirations of becoming a white rapper/ poet.) But I didn’t know it was the love for the shock of words I loved.
But after a few years on the poet scene I found out the words I used were no longer filling that void within me. I needed a challenge while I was attending a mental health hospital for delusions, unable to tell the difference between reality and dreams, walking around and having terrors form right before his eyes, all the while trying to keep my “Normal life” held together. I found a way out in Short stories and Screenplays. I generated myself as a novice pen-man. But as I marched my way through the writing scene, the words I was using did not have the same effect on me, so thus a novel was needed for his void. Taking all of the distorted images of people and events within my life, I create some of the weirdest and dark toned stories.
To keep my void filled I must still tackle all of my writing on a weekly or daily basis to ensure my pen doesn’t get lazy.
“I have been to hell when I was boy, when I arose from the fires I became a man; now, living out my life as an act to fit in to a place I can never truly be part of, so I write worlds I remember to entertain you from the darkness that raised me.” – “Psycho-Speak” Alex Kennedy.
If you would like to send us a private message, YOU CAN! We will receive your message and relay it back to Alex. The link is below. (NOTE: If you could leave us a short comment upon this page stating you have sent us a message, it would be appreciated, as we are not always on the email. Thank you.)
If you would like to talk to me about my writings or possible representation or guest-blog please use the e-mail below.
storywriteralexander@gmail.com
I am a real life Mental Patient. Now I shall show you a world within the one you live in.” – Alex Kennedy
(…May I just point out some of my earlier stories, from years prior, are from when I was mentally ill and on meds, so there maybe some spelling mistakes and weird twists. No I will not change them! They remind me of a time when I was less than myself now. But as I have grown, so has my work and spell-checking. Thank you.)
HAVE YOUR SAY AND TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK! Thanks for reading.

WELCOME!

This Pen is a Monster, It’s the only one that gets me.

Chain me to this black cloud; I am hiding what I have done to myself behind my shackles. The lure of darkness has my eye and the shadows are staring back; under the rock is where the monsters lie. Pop another, Alex; now swallow. These drugs don’t help me; they work, yes, but make me worse. I am sinking further into this high, losing myself with every capsule.

A dilemma I hold within each hand and tongue, standing in the dark.
If I take each of these pills I will transform into what you are now, sitting behind your computer trying to be something you are not quite yet. I wish to be animal within this society, mirror you. But the downside to every pill, is the shadow to every light, I do not write. I would never regret this addiction but with every forbidden love at one point or another you must either love or leave before the poison from the black rose’s thorns take effect.
This idea of a better life is just too huge to gulp-away. Now a revolution on words! Observe how my pain leaps from this computer screen at you. Your eyes merely glimmer with the hope, but mine shimmer towards the slant of greatness.

I will not give up,
Tie me up in blood soaked ribbon,
A present for the entire world,
Beneath my skin it’s crippling,
With the major difference bestowed upon this simpleton,
My evil symptoms are different,
Time to kick-up a fuss,
Along with the kids with the kids of these kingdoms,
Stand tall beside my pillars are wisdom,
They are for show but should be feared,
One day at a time but it turns into years,
This is all I can wish for,
Now stand up, Alex; and wipe away your tears on your sleeve.

I am sorry I left you, I made the wrong choice, forgive my stupendous stupid ways. I won’t let you down, my prolific talent is fifty all anyone else out there, this time my dream comes first and I shall make sure life comes a close second. This is the begin of something so real to me, I am back revenge upon my pad, even if I have to write in blood; I will get my words to you!

Another Rejection Letter From a Lit-Agent

I received another rejection letter again from a literary agency… Hey, we all go through it as writers, at one point or another.
Their exact (Key) Words they sent were:
1. We are sorry to inform you…
(Always a no-brainer where this is going)

2. Not currently seeking out new clients at this time…
(Erm… Okay)

3. We enjoyed your stories but…
(…no words…)

4. All the best in your future representation…
(Worth a shot…)
We can’t always hit a bull’s-eye on the first shot. I was told by another writer when I first started writing “You will get nowhere in this industry if you don’t have a name people remember.”
I guess he was right; without exposure I will not get anywhere in this writers life.
So I came up with a plan, a plan that would boggle the minds of most… I shall write and lie in wait.
What more can I do?
If I am to write all that overcomes my pretty-little head and share it upon my blog, sooner than later the readers and views will come, which in turn could eventually bring forth the right eyes for my work. (That’s innuendo for an agent.)
So instead of writing and passing out your work to Lit-Agencies who will not cloak you within their name, write all you can and bring the agents to you.
You have waited this long to be a great writer; why not wait a little longer?
Look at my blog;

  • One year ago I was a no one.
  • Today my blogs views have increased almost 400% within 1 month.
  • With the ten new WordPress followers a day, come ten new readers.

We as writers will always find a way to satisfy our urges to scribble.
Find your own and the be comfortable with it and I bet my soul on it, respect, a name and your dreams will soon venture your way.
Write!
Keep your pens busy!
I will be posting another post for you all tomorra’
Alexander Kennedy – Creative Writer.

My Evil Pen Told Me To Write This…

I am setting these pages alight, sending all my pieces of work into ashy memory, my own personal fire-shrine. I am the truest word of a writer so no further need for my tongue, cut it and kill it. I will take you on a voyage beyond the word hell – My diary. I am damaged; light-years from repair and still my severed limbs are crawling and scraping towards this dream. Sitting envious of the moguls flashing their achievements under my nose; how can I conquer my life if I cannot triumph over my own minds functions? I will one day.
They can make it shower hope for the hopeless and money for the poor, all I can ball-up is my ability to draw forth red clouds and make it rain blood upon us all, my bad. My demons swim within my eyeballs; once they surface they surf upon every teardrop. Writing is my way out of all of this; this pen is a leech upon my hand, sucking all my secrets out.
“He’s a mental patient, why hasn’t he begun killing yet?” I’m not sure, maybe I was hatched wrong.
I truly hope this isn’t the last time I lie down, evanescently in my nightmares. I am shredding up these pages with my ballpoint pen whilst having a word tantrum, I cannot stop – I have gone loco.
“If he is not evil, why does sin rhyme with him?” There are so many questions to answer.
I can’t stop these words escaping from the vortex of this pen!
This is coming off my chest,
Because I’m flying off the walls,
All these emotions inside can’t be stalled,
It’s time to let loose, it’s time to break free,
Alex has blew a fuse,
Here comes another side of me!
Dark clouds form prompt above my head, pissing on this world for my misfortunes and I am standing here filling my pockets. It is rather satirical to watch. Lightning strikes drag their fingers of obscurity across the ground with energized iron, rubbing out all that is wrong with land. The ground up-heaves and overlaps upon itself within a ripple effect to become almost a water imitation. The whole world stops watching and hears my pain, the Earth comes to life. The echoing screams from the people whom have sought shelter from this pen drip to a dull murmur as the ground opens a chipped-corner to Hell. Open your mouth! I do not blink as if I were to do so, a tear would fall; I do not breath from my mouth as if I were to do so, a whimper would wince; I do not care as if I were to do so I would forget this world forgot about me when they said they cared. Let this whole world shudder with my cold shoulder.
I drag my index finger under my right-eye where a tear has clung onto; I look at it sitting on my finger. This is the last of me! I flick the water in your direction. This is what you are after, it’s yours now.
You’re not the antagonist of this story, I am. I could let anyone of you destroy this world but this conflict you waltzed into the middle of has been in the making since my first cut.
You have no idea what this world can do to one man,
If you stay here long enough, you will understand my words.
Help me!

I have been dreaming of something better since I picked up this pen.
On this world you need your eyes to be closed to dream. Alex, give me the go-ahead and I shall make it a permanent fixture upon your face.