My bookshelves were once wobbly with cool music.

Then I had children.

I no longer have the time, resources or stamina to keep up with sonic gems as I once did. Like many parents, my time is now restricted and my auxiliary hobbies reduced.

But I will always make time for Beck. When he comes out with something new, I buy it.

Why?

Because Beck is an exciting artist. He’s always interesting and has never let me down. His music is instantly warm, familiar, and each time not quite like anything I’ve heard before.

Isn’t that the type of author you’d like to be?

Your model doesn’t have to be Beck. He’s a good example for me because I’ve always been drawn to his music and style. I’m sure you have your own artist.

The artist you love probably shares many of these qualities.

Beck Followed His Muse

When Beck signed with Geffen for less money than other labels were offering, it was because they offered him creative control.

Good move.

Beck’s spent his career marching to the beat of his own drum and millions of fans have remained marching behind. He’s continued to make the music he wants to, enjoy his choice of collaborators, and follow his own artistic blueprint.

When it comes to your art, make sure you’re the one making the rules. Of course, you should listen to constructive criticism, but ultimately it’s your art. Bending it to make others happy will warp its individuality.

Be Persistent

Beck was living on the streets when he was signed.

I remember reading a interview in BAM!, a now-defunct but then free black and white circular that filled the music stores and littered the streets of LA back in the day. In that circular, Beck said the best thing about being signed was that he finally had his choice of breakfast cereal.

Beck kept doing what he wanted to do without changing it to suit the needs of anybody, despite the difficulty of his situation. He continued working hard because he knew that one day his hard work would pay off.

Of course that’s easier to do when you’re not even twenty and don’t have children, but we can all find the time to do what’s truly important.

Don’t Listen to the Naysayers

If Beck had been shopping for opinions in 1993 when recording his breakout hit, “Loser,” then somebody probably would’ve told him that the lyric, “My time is a piece of wax falling on a termite that’s choking on the splinters” was too incomprehensible to ever find its way to airplay.

But it launched his career and is now just one of countless loopy lines from the original Loser.

Many music critics doubted Beck would be anything more than a one-hit-wonder, relegated to the cut out bins. However, Beck continued to follow his muse, experimenting with different musical styles and found more success in 1996 with his second major label release, Odelay, which garnered him two Grammys.

Even the best authors have been told their stories weren’t good, right for the market, or were unoriginal. However, the truly good authors don’t give up on themselves or their stories. They find a way to persevere and find the right audience.

Just Do it

Beck didn’t wait to get signed, nor did he a need million-dollar studio time to generate a hit. “Loser” was recorded on a friend’s 8-track, picked up by local LA stations, then spread across the country.

Soon enough there was a bidding war. The rest is history.

You’ll have your own way of doing it, but it will never happen if you don’t get started.

Create what’s inside you, as authentically as you can, then get it in front of as many eyes as possible. With social media, artists have never had more power to find the audience that’s perfect for them.

Then, when you are successful, remember the true you and continue to nurture it.

Your audience will love you. Even more important, they will make time for your art even after their lives become crowded with too much to do and not enough time to do it.

Be your best writer and see your book to print. Subscribe to the Inkwell for free updates by RSS or Email.

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Wow! I can’t believe I’m guest posting at the Collective Inkwell.

I thought it was pretty exciting when Mr. Platt let me guest post over at Writer Dad on Wednesday, but the Inkwell is even better. I’m usually not even allowed to read this site because my dad said that sometimes it’s inappropriate. I tried to tell him that was really only on Fridays and not even anymore since they moved their horror story to its own thingy, but then he asked me how I even knew about the story in the first place and then I had to leave the room.

Anyway, Mr. Platt said it might be kind of fun to publish something at the Inkwell since that’s where a bunch of other authors hang out. Then I said that I wasn’t really sure if that was a good idea and that I didn’t consider myself an author. I’ve only written the one book after all, and it hasn’t even really come out yet. Besides, I’m only in sixth grade.

“Did you write a book?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Then you’re an author.”

My mom gets really mad at me when I argue with grownups so I just said okay. Then I started to get excited.

I don’t want to be one of those writers who repeats themselves all the time, so I won’t talk about what the book is all about like I did at Writer Dad. Instead I’d like to talk about what I plan to do with the book since that’s probably what you’re more interested in anyway.

A couple of days ago I released my new book, Penny to a Million in a really pretty PDF and it’s available as a free download. I wrote all the words, of course, but I had Collective Inkwell do the book cover because whenever I try to draw something my sister Nicky makes fun of me. Making a book cover that a whole bunch of people are going to see would probably be like a million times worse.

I’m gonna put the book in print, probably in a couple months or so. But I’m giving the PDF to the first 1,000 people who want it. After that I’m going to charge like five bucks.

I read the thing I was supposed to read over at SmashWords, so next week I plan to get the book in a whole bunch of different formats and stuff. I hope to get it done quickly, but I’ll get in trouble if I finish it before I’m done with my science project. Our teacher gave us the prompt in September, but I haven’t even started mine, even though it’s due in March. My mom is trying not to get mad at me, but I think I’m pushing her.

Anyway, when I’m all done with SmashWords, then I’m going to do the podcast. Except I’m probably going to have Mr. Platt help me record since my voice has been a little squeaky lately.

Mr. Platt said I could come back and talk about what it was like to put the book on SmashWords and record the podcast, but he also said it was up to me. I might blog about it over at my site, but I haven’t decided. I have a lot on my plate and everything. Plus, there’s this girl I really like and I heard her tell her friend Wendy that she thought blogging was nerdy. I’m on Twitter though, if you want to follow me.

If the book does well, I’ll write another one because a LOT has happened so far in sixth grade.

If you want to be one of the people who gets to read my book for free, you can download it here.

Thanks for reading!

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Updated: Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all of our readers. Available Darkness will return next Friday – January 1 January 8th to kick off 2010 with a bang.

We apologize for the lack of Available Darkness updates for the past two weeks. First we had the holidays and then we’ve been getting Collective Inkwell 3.0 ready behind the scenes. And we’re VERY excited about the changes, including a brand spanking new design, which might be my favorite yet. You can check out the changes on Monday, Jan. 4th.

We look forward to seeing you then.

Thank you for reading.

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(Serial and Milk: Available Darkness is a serialized horror thriller co-written by David Wright and Sean Platt. A new chapter appears here each Friday. If you missed previous chapters, you can read them here.)

Swallow enough pills and sleep eventually finds you. For Jack, it came quickly. His breathing relaxed and he found himself deep in his dreams, though he wasn’t in the bedroom of his youth. He was somewhere else.

Jack stood on a deck overlooking a pristine white shore, familiar, though only through the hazy fog of fragmented memory. He was more relaxed than he’d remembered feeling in a while. Chasing criminals has a way of owning you even when off duty. Prior to their mutual “I do’s,” Julia used to continually complain, both with words and dancing eyes, about his inability to unplug from work and just be happy.

Julia!

He remembered the shoreline; the pristine white sands of Aruba, where he and Julia spent three amazing weeks on their honeymoon. Which was, oddly enough, probably the last time he’d felt at peace. Julia had made him promise to take three weeks off from work, a luxury he’d never experienced, even though he’d probably built up a half year’s worth of vacation time. He didn’t want to. He had too much work and knew it would pile up without his constant attention.

“The world will still turn and the job will get done without you,” Julia had said.

And she was right. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he found his shoulders relaxing long enough to let him enjoy life. An epiphany, Jack returned home with renewed purpose. Life was his to create. Family first, a husband’s duty.

That vow lasted almost until the end of his first week back until Jack found himself buried alive with a case that kept him hostage to the office from early light to mocking moon. One case turned to two, then weeks to months and months to years until just like that, he found that he’d slowly surrendered his limbs to the shackles of fate without even realizing it.

Waves lapped. Jack took a sip of wine. Behind him, he heard a muffled voice from the other side of the double French doors of their honeymoon villa. Though he was deep into dream and memory, a part of him was also aware of the waking life in which his wife was long since dead. His eager heart sped in his chest.

It had been so long since she had visited his dreams. Even though he’d wake up sad, these brief moments were better than nothing. He opened the door and…

…was again a child, back in the middle of that awful night which had been blotted from his memory ever since, stepping gingerly into the darkened hallway. Downstairs, his father was still screaming at his mother. The shadow man was just ahead of him, at the landing of the stairs. He turned back and in that dissonant voice, warned Jack to wait.

And Jack did.

Moments later, he heard his father cry out, “What the fuck?”

The end of fuck was severed by a ripping sound followed by a wet thud and a splash which sent chills down Jack’s spine.

He’s dead.

While a part of him should have been happy that the man who tormented he and his mother would no longer do so, the reality of murder did not bring the relief he’d sought. Panicked tears welled inside and warm piss trickled down Jack’s leg.

His mother screamed. At first Jack assigned the sound to the horror of seeing her husband murdered. Yet the scream held an elevated fear which went far beyond the terror of a frightened witness, sharp as it was with the acid panic of self preservation.

“Hello, mother,” the man in shadows said in a voice of boots crunching atop vomit soaked gravel.

Then, the sound of ripping flesh and gurgling, followed by silence.

Jack waited, fear circling the drain of his throat.

She’s dead, you killed her!

The adult part of Jack was frozen as well. He remembered nothing of this night from his youth, these memories were not the ones of how he knew his parents to have died, yet he knew it wasn’t a dream. This was a truth he’d been hiding from, or … which had removed from his mind. Entombed memories were no less real for their burial. He urged his dream self to take a step forward, to unravel the rest of the mystery.

“Mommy!” young Jack screamed, bolting down the stairs and into the living room.

He saw the still smoldering corpse of his father, flesh still bubbling as his headless body twitched. Wherever his father’s head was, it wasn’t anywhere next to his body.

The next two things he noticed in unison.

The shadow man, now looking slightly more human in form, stood in the center of the living room with his arms outstretched, while his mother, throat slashed and blood soaking through the thin gauze of her night shirt, danced. Her arms were raised, her lifeless head rolling back and forth barely there and maybe only by a thread. Her feet hovered inches above the ground. The shadow man moved his arms wildly like a crazed marionette as Jack’s mother danced some perverse jig. The shadow man continued to vent a smog of chilling laughter during the macabre recital.

Jack screamed. The shadow man turned to him, surprised, and allowed his mother to collapse in an inanimate heap.

“Forgive me, a son should have one final dance with his mother, yes?” The trailing S, a serpent’s hiss.

Jack was confused. He longed to run at the monster, pound him, tear him apart, anything. But fear bolted his ankles to the floor.

“You don’t remember me, do you Jackie?” the monster said, drifting closer.

Jack wanted to turn and run. The adult Jack also wanted to turn away, tears streaming down his sleeping cheeks. Neither Jack could do anything but watch the mind movie that had no pause.

Finally, the child spoke.

“Why did you kill her?”

“Because!” the monster yelled, his voice sounding more boyish and human than before, “she left me. You all left me behind.”

“She’s not your mother!” Jack cried out.

“Ah, what have they done to you, brother? You really don’t remember me, do you? It’s me … Jacob.”

And just like that, the shape of the shadow man dissipated like spider webs in a tornado, and standing before Jack was a boy, not much older than he, wearing a black shirt and pants, coated in the fresh blood of Jack’s parents.

Jack was torn between confusion, anger and a sudden, incredible sadness. None of this was making any sense and his head felt as if it were going to split and spill its contents.

“She made you forget,” Jacob said, “but I,” and he pointed at his head and spread his lips in a lunatic’s smile, “I NEVER forget!”

The monster boy stepped forward and Jack took a step back, shaking.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to kill you two. You‘re my brothers.”

Brothers? Two? Who else is he talking about? Adult Jack was puzzled, though his mind was too entrenched in the dream to work out the logic at play.

The monster headed to the front door, opened it, and disappeared into the night.

This was all too much for young Jack, what was he supposed to do now? His head hurt and more than anything, he wanted to march behind his mother right into the arms of death. Adult Jack was feeling the same feelings as he was experiencing this, in some way, for the first time. Part of him wanted to die right there in his dream. To spare him of not only this, but of living alone in this cold world without Julia.

But he couldn’t.

A tiny voice called from upstairs, “Is he gone?”

Jack glanced up at the four year old peering back between the banisters. A boy so young should not see such things.

Adult Jack was dumbstruck. I have a brother?

“Go back in your room, Johnny!” Jack shouted, tears twisting his voice into a gasp.

Confusion, shock and pain were twined like hair in a braid, but he couldn’t allow himself to shut down. Though he were just a child himself, he had to protect John. Family first, a brother’s duty.

__________

Jack snapped awake.

“John?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Be sure to check out the Author’s Notes in the comments section following each chapter. Also, please tweet this post and help spread the word about Available Darkness and nurture online fiction.

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I’ve been running crazy behind for about a week now. If you can believe it, I actually talk work with me to Vegas and expected I’d get it done. I guess that’s a little like taking a brown bag lunch to a buffet.

I haven’t had time to write, but I did want to connect. I’ll be laying down my thoughts on Vegas soon. Dave and I have a more definitive direction planned for the Inkwell, though we’ll be sticking with the same pretty decor!

What’s Going Down at the Inkwell from Sean Platt on Vimeo.

Enjoy the video and we’ll see you soon!

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Creativity is a constant whisper inside us all. As artists it is our job to hunt for the whisper, listen closely once found, then bring it to the surface and encourage it to roar. Many people make the mistake of believing that they are not creative, but this simply isn’t true. Just because something because gemstones are buried in a mine doesn’t mean they can’t be excavated.

Individuality, inspiration, and imagination are already swirling in your atoms. I admit there are days when I put off the important in pursuit of procrastination, but this merely makes me humann. By approaching creativity with planned consideration, I ensure I’m able to draw the most from inside me.

Here are four methods to help you pull the most from your creative mind.

1) Concentrate. Life has plenty of distractions, and seemingly more so with every new year. In my neighborhood, I have to deal with dogs barking, car alarms blaring, the tamale lady hollering, “Tamales! Tamales y chaparatos!” along with the occasional unexpected visitor or silence splitting phone call – just a few of the many things that regularly mar my concentration. Torn from my flow, I find it all too easy to abandon creative pursuits and retreat to my paid work for the remainder of the day. Some of these distractions cannot be avoided. Many can. By reducing the number of possible distractions, I am sharpening my focus and widening the net to capture my creativity.

2) Prepare. I used to sit at my desk, stare at the blank page, and imagine I’d be infused with inspiration by osmosis alone. Now with the need for a mind in constant motion, I try prepare for the creativity of the coming day a full sunrise ahead of time. If there’s a particular subject I’m interested in or know I’ll be tackling, I do all I can to read up on the topic the day before. I saturate my mind with these fresh ideas, sometimes even swimming with them in my sleep, submerged in the morning with a new strategy to let them spill and slowly spread across the page.

3) Let go. The bright white of the blank page or empty canvas can feel more like a brick wall whose apex you can only imagine. When you find yourself feeling lost and standing at the base of the bricks, start moving the pen across the page or your fingers across the keyboard. It really is that simple. Start with the word “the” and then keep on going. Don’t worry about the words. It’s far more important to find your flow.

4) Embrace your limitations. Inspiration can strike at any moment and know matter how many times you tell yourself you won’t forget, the odds are not in your favor. Don’t allow an amazing idea to catch you unprepared. The more you coax your creativity, the more of a constant in your life it will become and the more it will try to catch you off guard. Before you know it, you will find yourself assaulted by the odd flash of creativity in the most unlikely places; the shower, red lights, the grocery store, the zoo. You must have a regular method to gather ideas as they come, be it notebook, recorder, iphone, or receipt. For an artist, capturing your creativity is essential to your productivity. You will tell yourself you’ll remember, but with life always raining a million things inside our minds, we must have a bucket to catch the overflow.

Many people believe they aren’t qualified to create. This is like believing we aren’t licensed to breathe. I used to be the same, but I no longer believe I need credentials to create. Now I know to nurture the creative seed inside you, all you have to do is try.

Collective Inkwell Community Question: Do you feel qualified to create?

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(Serial and Milk: Available Darkness is a serialized thriller co-written by David Wright and Sean Platt. A new chapter appears here each Friday. If you missed previous chapters, you can read them here.)

Something was wrong. The gallon of ice water that had settled at the top of John’s shoulders was now sliding down his spine and speaking of Abigail’s trouble.

He bolted upright in the bed and glanced at the clock on the cable box – 6:51 p.m. – and then at the curtains. His toes curled into the carpet as he made three long strides toward the shrouded wall. He wanted to part the curtains and take a peek outside, but a sudden fear grabbed his hand and held it. The sun was low in the sky, but still there, and John could feel its deadly light holding him prisoner in the hotel room. Another 10 minutes at least.

A current rippled through his body and caused the hair on his arms to stand up and wave like wheat in the wind. He paced the floor, repeating his whisper to no one.

The girl is safe — this is all in your mind.

A seam in his subconscious, barely tethered to begin with, suddenly split and spilled a swift shimmer of images. John caught a glimpse of a rearview mirror, a cop car with spinning red and blue lights and a the edged shadow of a looming nightmare.

Fuck.

The image evaporated almost as quickly as it came, and John tried to comfort himself with the thought that it was just fear holding court in his head, mocking him like the final rays of the sun outside. If he could only ignore it a little while longer, he would be rewarded with Abigail walking through the door. Any minute now, he almost allowed himself to believe.

As if to punish hope for daring to show its face, John was slapped with another flash, just as quick and twice as painful. He saw Abigail’s hand push open the door of the old sedan before she stepped onto the road.

The image turned to gauze, then faded to black.

John frantically circled the room as though his body was an antenna seeking for the connection he had with the girl. Logic told him he was simply imagining things. Then again, logic had spiraled down the drain along with his sanity the moment he woke in a coffin.

What he was seeing was real.

He closed his eyes, trying to coax another image into view, but nothing would color the sudden hollow of his mind. If there was a way to control this, whatever this was, he was operating without a manual.

“Damn it,” he snarled in a voice several octaves deeper than it had been earlier in the evening. The new timbre surprised him, as though a stranger’s voice had been driven from the depths of his throat.

Another flash and he found himself again looking through Abigail’s eyes and up at the cop.

The image quickly turned to vapor.

Shit.

John double checked the bags sitting at the foot of the door. Everything was packed and good to go. He glanced at the curtains again, tried to summon the courage to pull them aside, then shuddered with the thought that it would probably be easier to part the sea.

Something inside him whispered, you’ll burn just like they did.

Another flash. Abigail was looking around at the traffic, quietly frantic. So many people staring at her. John was swimming inside her emotions, feeling her longing to just disappear. He caught another brief glimpse of the cop before the image vanished, replaced by the sight of his hand curling tightly into the thick hotel curtains.

Fuck it.

He tugged the curtains aside, no more than a couple of inches, and his world exploded in a helix of fire and agony.

John launched back, hitting the far wall, causing a tacky hotel room framed piece to fall onto him. The left side of his face matched the inferno erupting across the sudden cinder of his left arm. His mouth opened impossibly wide to unleash the ear-splitting shriek of a banshee. His body writhed beneath the frame, wracked in torment for what seemed an eternity. He focused on the only thing he could see from where he was — a cracked electrical outlet — clutching it as an anchor to keep him rooted in this world and to prevent him from blacking out again.

Abigail needed him.

He held tight as the intense pain started to recede. However, he still felt as if he’d been hit by a truck — a truck on fire — and could only lay on the floor. He thought of Abigail again, her wide eyes, and felt a pang in his heart. That she should suffer so much in her short life enraged him. He shrugged the framed art aside and sat up.

The curtains had fallen back closed, returning the room to the safety of darkness.

The sickly sweet smell of burning flesh permeated his nostrils and stirred a surprising growl in his stomach despite knowing the scent was of his own body roasting. His left arm was the color of charred brick, raw with blood and torn skin, but still functioning.

He dreaded seeing his face.

John pulled himself up against the wall and slowly made his way to the bathroom mirror. The left side of his face was the snapshot of a monster. Not as bad as his arm, but horribly mottled; his left eye crusted shut and throbbing beneath the thin mangled membrane of remaining flesh.

The mirror disappeared in another flash, replaced with Abigail’s vision. She was still with the cop, the two of them now talking. An approaching van had grabbed her attention. Oh Christ – in the window! A masked man with a gun appeared in slow motion.

The image disappeared alongside all lucidity.

A preternatural quiet suffocated the room suppressing all but the mingling sounds of John’s shallow breaths and pounding heart. He searched the mirror for a way to save the girl, afraid if he did not act quickly, the next image would be from inside her closed eyelids.

The silence of dusk was shattered by a gunshot that was half in his mind and half an echo in the distance.

“Nooooo!”

John screamed, instinct and rage seizing control of his limbs and driving him into spontaneous motion.

Though every move seemed to rip his wounded flesh even more, he swallowed the pain and scanned the room. He grabbed the blanket on Abigail’s bed and wrapped it around his body in one quick sweep. He lurched forward and also grabbed two pillow cases, then ran towards the door, stuffed one case inside the other and pulled them over his head.

“I’m coming, Abigail,” he said, hoping that whatever connection there was between them carried the message to her.

He breathed in deeply before opening the door to abandon the safe harbor of the hotel in a deadly swap for the savagery of the awaiting sunlight.

TO BE CONTINUED…

We’ll be fielding any comments or questions you have in the comments section, so stop by. We’d love to hear what you think. Also, please tweet this post and help spread the word about Available Darkness and nurture online fiction.

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First of all, thanks to everybody who entered our creative writing contest. Our judges have their work cut out for them, as there were many outstanding entries. Judges will be reading all the entries in the coming week and assigning a point value to each story. Those stories that gather the most points will place first through third, with winners announced the following Monday.

We hope you have enjoyed what you’ve seen so far at Collective Inkwell. But as the saying goes, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet!

We’re lining up some great interviews with today’s best creative minds. We’ll kick off our interview series this Wednesday with a great Q & A with Brian  Anderson of the uber cute AND hilarious syndicated comic strip, Dog Eat Doug. Among topics of discussion, we’re going to talk about Brian’s comic creating process, how the economy is affecting comic strip artists and what inspires him.

In coming weeks, we’ve also got some great guest posts lined up and some new features which we’re sure will entertain and inspire you.

Thanks to everybody who has stopped by so far. We appreciate all the feedback and conversation and look forward to the next few months!

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