Buried In An Unmarked Grave

Eulogy, as follows:  “Silas Dunn sits atop the list of the world’s shittiest writers (and shittiest human beings).  A long line of decent, hardworking people built families in order to introduce the world to this supremely conceited fuck.  He sat at his computer, writing violence, sex, and sometimes the two of them combined.  He had a weird fucking brain.  If I’m being completely honest, society probably would have benefited if scientists could have studied it.  Alas, he died in relative peace.  But, rest assured, we do and will always hate Silas Dunn’s weird fucking writing.”

This is relatively true.  I’ve been sitting at my desk writing something weird for the past three hours.  And none of it benefits anyone.  Hell, it doesn’t even really benefit me.

Fuck.  I’ve done fuck-all about the betrayals I’ve felt over the last few months.  The countless “friends” who have decided that now was a great time to say, “Hey, man, we hate your stuff.  And also kinda you.”  I thought it’d be a good idea to let it sit & say nothing, like the stupid fucking pacifist I am.  I let all of these former acquaintances walk all over me, tell me how horrible I am, tell me how exactly I’m lying to myself, tell me I’m a fucking no-talent hack, tell me that they wouldn’t read my shit if Isis threatened their fucking kids, and I didn’t say a goddamn word.  I stood by them.  I made excuses — “oh, no they aren’t so bad” or “well, they didn’t actually MEAN that,” or “no, he’s gonna turn around”.

Alas, none of this was true.  They were that bad, they actually meant that, and he didn’t turn around.

So, I took to the skies.  I fucking screamed at the top of my lungs.  I screamed on the fucking mountain-tops.  I screamed in the fucking sewers.  I screamed myself to sleep and I cursed and I told myself they were wrong about me.  Everyone was wrong about me.

Of course, none of this was said aloud.  I let everyone think I was fine.  I told everyone that I understood, that there were no hard feelings, that things like this happen every day.  That I respected the choices they made.  Even though the choices they made shoved me into a fucking pit.  Even though the choices they made told everyone that I was an evil fuck who lied to the world about his beliefs.

Still, I wanted no confrontations, no hard feelings, no friendships lost.

Because I hadn’t yet realized that those friendships were already lost, buried in an unmarked grave in the middle of a foreign cemetery, surrounded by young trees, lost time, and the hatred of a thousand people I’d once called family.

So, I write today to tell you to be careful who you trust.  Even when people draw you into their webs of lies, of deceit, & of hypocrisy disguised as religion, don’t place your trust in them.  Because all people are the same.  We all fuck up, we all feel hatred, & we all judge.

And no matter what any pastor or prophet or father says, the world is a horrible place that will drag you below if you let it.  So find someone who makes the world tolerable.  Find someone you’re willing to take on this fucking world with.  Find someone who will have your back, ready to fight the enemies lining up at your door to kill you.

And never fucking let them go.

Silas Dunn

 

 

 

Alien: Abduction or a Hitler Clone

There are days (most days) when I feel like something is about to go horribly wrong for me.  Maybe a root canal, maybe an alien abduction.  Maybe an alien abduction during a root canal.  Then, there are days (NOT most days) when nothing could phase me.  I could witness seventeen murders and have to talk to a baby Hitler clone and I’d still go home smiling.

A few days ago, I looked in the mirror and decided I hated myself.  And, no, I don’t hate myself like, “I’d like to die now, please & thank you.”  I just looked at myself for a few awkwardly erotic moments and decided I really didn’t like me.  I wasn’t happy with how I looked.  I wasn’t happy with the things I said.  I wasn’t happy with who I was as a person.

And maybe you’re saying to yourself, “Well, why doesn’t Silas just fix it?”  Well, fuck, that’s a great idea, basically non-existent readers.  And I did.  Or, at least, I tried.  I didn’t fail, per se, but I certainly didn’t succeed.

Not yet. 

Because it’s not over.  I haven’t reached the point I one day hope to, but I’m not stagnant. I’m moving forward, little by little, inch by inch, and I plan on continuing to move forward for as long as I’m breathing.  And, hopefully, by the time I’m eighty-nine and hardly able to walk, they’ll give me a wheelchair capable of Mach 3 so I can zip by you assholes.

I’ll keep moving until I’m dead.  And, to be honest, when I’m dead, I’d like to be attached to the underside of a Star Destroyer (those exist).

I’m sorry that this has absolutely nothing to do with absolutely anything, but I don’t really have to pander to anyone, because I have one reader.

Hey, Reid.  Ya’ dick.

Alright, I’m out.  Until next time —

Silas Dunn

Pulp Doesn’t Mean Tasteless

Pulp:  popular or sensational writing that is generally regarded as being of poor quality.

There’s a stigma to writing what is known as “pulp fiction”.  People tend to assume that pulp is tasteless, talentless crap.  That any author who is willing to sink him or herself into the sewers of pulp fiction must have really hit rock bottom and need to catch up on alimony payments.

JUST BECAUSE IT’S MORE VIOLENT THAN YOU’D LIKE DOESN’T MEAN IT’S POORLY WRITTEN.

Let me clarify.  In no way am I saying that all pulp writing is fantastic and deserving of awards.  Just like any other type of art, there are magnificent masterpieces and things usually found in a second grade classroom’s trash can, underneath week-old tuna.

I generally get the same three responses when people read my work.

1. “Are you doing okay?  This seems really violent for someone who attends church.”
2. “Oh, this is too violent for me.  I like things that take thought.”
3. “This needs to be funnier.  It would be good if it was funnier!”

Now, there are a number of people who genuinely like my work.  And it’s good to have those reassurances that I’m writing good material — that there are people who understand what I’m writing, why I’m writing it, and who my target audience is.

Pulp doesn’t mean tasteless.  Let’s take Cinemax as an example.  Many consider the network (currently owned by HBO, to give some perspective) to be a classless outlet for high-budget pornography.  This is what gave the network its nickname, Skinemax.  In the last decade or so, Cinemax has come out with some grade A original, scripted series.  One of these, Banshee, was produced by HBO alum, Alan Ball.  Yes, Banshee is very comic book-esque in the way it’s written and directed.  And yes, it’s got copious amounts of sex and violence.  But it’s one of the best-written shows on TV in the last five years.

I write the way I write because I like it.  I like to shock the audience (and sometimes myself).  I like evil characters that we still inherently root for.  I like the way it looks when our protagonist goes from a sexual conquest in one panel to the scene of a murder in the next.  Shock is one of the pulp writer’s greatest tools.

There are plenty of incredibly talented pulp writers out there.  Our man Quentin Tarantino is chief among them with titles like, Pulp Fiction (oh gee!), Reservoir Dogs, Django Unchained, and The Hateful Eight.  So remember, just because YOU don’t like the way it’s written, doesn’t mean it’s bad writing.

Unless it’s anything by Skip Woods.  Fuck that guy.

Silas Dunn

Novelist By Day, Narcissist By Night

Pour yourself a cup of coffee and put on some Jackson Browne, folks.  Before I really get started, I’m going to let anyone reading this know that I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.  I’m a graphic novelist — and, no, I don’t mean erotic thrillers.  I mean GRAPHIC NOVELIST — Stan Lee, Ed Brubaker, Brian K. Vaughn.  Essentially, I write violent picture books for a living.

Writing, for me, was more of an outlet when it first started; a way to escape the hum-drum of everyday life and enter a world where anything was possible.  I was finally who I wanted to be and no one could bring me down.  Well, not for more than an episode or two.  Writing started out as a way to cope with depression, but it morphed into so much more than that.

I was probably about a year in before I realized, “Hey!  I like this.  A lot!”  And people started telling me I should go for it.  Yeah, the normal people — family, friends, people who either care too much or not enough to tell me I suck.  But it wasn’t always those people.  Sometimes it’d be people I didn’t know from Adam.  Friends of friends of cousins or the occasional ex-girlfriend’s grandma.

So, I started thinking about doing this for a living.  Putting words to paper.  Which seemed quite alright to me, because, as it turns out, I really liked hearing myself talk.  Understandably, I liked making other people hear me talk, as well.

But what I didn’t know is that I sucked.  I was bad.  And I don’t mean the guy whose story is alright but his grammar isn’t.  I wrote a “screenplay” — and I use that word lightly — with a buddy of mine when we were both in eighth grade.  A few months back, I re-read that piece of crap and I almost threw up my lunch.  It was called something like Project Levee and I realized that something like half of it was plagiarized from the USA Network show Burn Notice.  Apparently, that was my idea of great writing at the time. Didn’t want to plagiarize Tarantino or Nolan.  No!  Matt Nix and his writing staff for Burn Notice was who set the line for me.

Thankfully, I got better.  I hope I did, anyway.  I don’t know, maybe people still baby me.  Maybe they read a piece of mine and say, “Holy crud, this thing’s a big ol’ dump.”  Because, you know, people talk like that, right?

This medium, the blog, is all very new to me.  I guess what I’m saying is that I have no clue what this is about, no clue where this is going, and no clue what my third no clue was going to be.  So bear with me, anyone who’s reading this.  Probably my mom or, like, my uncle.

And if you’re reading this from at least twenty years into the future, I’d really like to know how I die.  Or if food is served in capsule form.

Silas Dunn