The Black Bishop has written a book!
I feel a little bit weird, typin' about it here. In truth, it has been my dirty little secret for some time now.
I'm not a very "proud" person but I don't know how it (the pride) can be measured. How do I know if I'm a "proud" person..?
I don't like creating "hype", I'm not a marketer and I seem to have a problem with drawing attention to myself.
I suppose if nothing else, I learned some things about myself during this "experiment" so mabes I can share some thoughts, mabes you can learn some stuff about you, too huh.
They say "type what you know" and I think I know "feelings of failure". I must have created this perspective of myself when I was younger.
I can remember my dad leaving my mom, younger siblings and I when I was about fifteen and "the event" seemed to scar me in ways.
I had always been taught, by my father, to be the best I could be. He helped me learn to read at an early age, he played with me constantly, he was my whole world and I can remember wanting to be just like him.
I was always good at school (possibs because I had some caring parents at home who took the time to know what I was accomplishing, or not accomplishing)...
So I grew up with this feeling of being "talented" or "gifted". I was the smart kid, the creative, the imaginative. I was the dungeon master in role playing games with my friends because I was quick on my feet, lightning fast with my mind and tongue.
I had that thing that we like to label kids with, "potential".
Then the divorce and the pain of losing what you think is reality. The withdrawing from emotions, the disappointment, the sadness turning to anger.
I rebelled, I didn't want anything to do with my mom or my dad because if they hurt me with their decisions, well I was gonna do my share of hurting back eh.
I started smoking just to piss them off, I ran away from home countless times, just wanting to be away, wanting to be left alone.
Ah the stories I could tell...
In short, I became the bad kid. The one that people saw as a bad apple because I took all of my potential and held it hostage, demanding a ransom that I didn't really care about receiving.
And ever since, I thought that I was no longer creative, not imaginative. Not smart.
I drowned myself in drugs and later, alcohol, numbing all the negative emotions. And the positive ones...
So, ever so slowly, over the years, I've been tryin' to accept that my creative side is still in there. It's been ignored and neglected for a long time but it's in there, somewhere, I can feel it sometimes.
Now that it's officially "out" there, on a screen, well it conflicts me, inside.
I know I want to feel some sort of pride but...
Wait, I have to back up a bit, where is that rewind button...
I thought, back when I was crankin' out page after murderous page, that when it was "done", when I had given it my all...
That a big church bell would 'gong' all loud and clear and I'd know, deep inside, that I was "done", that I had done it, finished it even.
But there it was, sittin' on my hard drive, lookin' at me funny as I looked at it funny.
What are you doing there little story, I would ask it.
The same thing you are Bishop, it would say. Nothing.
And that sorta bugged me for a bit, I'm not sure why. Perhappers it was the lack of the church bell sound...
So I waited a while, expecting the bell sound at any moment. Yeps, any minute now. Whenever you're ready big bell, I'm here, I'm ready.
Aren't I..?
I had to accept that there was to be no bell sound. No finish line.
And that if I was wanting to share my story with anyone, anyone at all, that I would have to find a way to put it into a readable format. I can't just give out flash drives (these are like little storage devices, similar in use to an old DVD, remember those..?)
A real live book with paper seemed desirable, mabes a fancy cover, you know. But that would take a publisher, an "investment" and dollar signs. I should probs try to find a proofreader, an editor of some sort, you know, the things authors do before calling their book "done".
But the more I looked, the more I learned and investigated, the more I saw just how much more was required.
Writing a story wasn't the easy part. I mean, all of us are writers right.
The whole "getting it out there" became the hard part. And I struggled, oh how I struggled.
I tried to learn a whole industry when learning new stuff might not be a positive trait in my character make up any more.
And in the end, having no resources and finding no help, I succumbed to the only option left. I submitted my story to the giant Amazon Kindle self publish people.
I haphazardly threw together a cover, it's black and white and extremely plain.
I filled out the required boxes, clicked "permission granted" and named a price (five bucks or about three and a half pounds for my British friends).
But still, no bell.
A weird thing happens to us when we're reluctant to do something. We know we "have to" and it's not something we really want to do and we try to make excuses, we try to rationalize, justify...
And it seems like there's a really grey line between positive and negative perspectives sometimes.
How do I feel, how should I feel and who really cares how I feel in the end anyway. Do I care?
Well, yes. Yes I might care. But it's in the labeling my care, that I seem to get stuck.
If a consequence just up and "happens", must we identify it before moving on?
Let's say I accidentally knock a woman up. For my feminist friends, this is the derogatory phrase meaning, "I've impregnated a woman with my baby making seed" (no offense intended, it's humor huh).
If I don't think the world is a great place for a new baby to live in, I can identify my feelings as "horrible". Praps "guilty" or "worried", mabes a whole slew of others but "negative" sure, undeniable.
If I think the world is a wondrous place and a new life will surely enjoy every second of it's time here, then blamo, my feelings can be all positive, full of "hope" and "aspirations". I can instill in my child the same "gifted" curse my father imprinted in me right (don't tell me that's not positive!)
Or sometimes, there might be a third option. Perhaps that baby making episode was so insanely awesome that no consequence was too good or bad, that orgasm (or three) was worth it huh.
So it has become with my first literary baby. I don't know if I should be happy, proud and positive. I mean, not everyone can describe the same "somethings" for more than sixty thousand words eh.
I don't know if I should be sad, angry and negative. I mean, I could have done so much "more", couldn't I..? I should have, I could have...
I don't know, I've asked myself that for quite some time now. What else could I do...
I'm aiming for the third option because that one feels easiest to me. Not angry, not happy, just...
An explosion of emotional quaking and vomiting on my screen. An orgasm of sorts, one that left me numb and a little exhausted.
But one that was well worth it.
I had ignored the beast in it's cage inside me for too long. I didn't mean to let it out, at least, not on purpose...
I must have, at some point, dropped a hack saw within reach and just sorta turned my back while it sawed at it's bars.
I hope to work on a sequel in the near future. There are some plot holes I left on purpose, that I want to fill in "someday".
If you are curious or compelled, I will leave the link. There's a "free sample", I think it's like the first five pages and if you like it, hey it's not all that expensive. It might be worth it...
Do leave a review if you're able, I'm won't ask for favors, if you didn't like it, that's okay and share your thoughts and criticisms freely.
I think I'm a huge criticizer of others so it just wouldn't be fair if I didn't accept (an encourage) others to criticize me.
Here's my cover in case you're "unsure" and hey, thanks for readin' you know..!
the Black Bishop's first book..!
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