About R. Richardsson

Author and father of four, I dream of a day when my livelihood is my writing. My breakout work is with the 'Ballad of John Rizzerio' trilogy; the story of a vampire hunter who, through a tragic turn of events, loses everything he holds dear. It will take more than a few prayers to bring him back from the the brink of despair in time to defend humanity. I enjoy working with the Horror Genre, but will soon be spending a lot of time with Medieval Fantasy. I enjoy both genres and will always have one foot in the door of the other, depending on my project. All of my work is fiction, and will remain this way, with the exception of an up and coming memoir. If you want to follow my progress, feel free to like my FB page, follow me @Cryptic_Dude or add me to your circle on G+ as well!

Inspiration of the Day

Image

May I have a moment of your time?

 

twainquote

 

Editing is the writer’s greatest weakness.  No one person, with the exception of the OCD genius with IQ of 150, will be able to produce a masterpiece on the first attempt.

I am constantly reminding myself to pour as much attention into the finished product, as I do when creating it, lest I give you something not worth the spit on the bottom of my boot.

One of my tricks is to surround myself with inspirational quotes, books, or the occasional test reader, to remind me the error of my ways.  While I don’t surround myself with the test reader, no matter how willing he or she may be, I do appreciate their scrutiny.

fitzgeraldquote

How many times have you done this?  Writing on bated breath?  Mr. Fitzgerald believes that this is how all good writing is done.  Let me ask you this: do you fancy yourself a writer, or, do you just desire to be a writer?

Writing comes from the soul.  You either have a story, (or in some cases, stories), to tell, or, you want to tell a story.  Whichever side of the fence you are on, you desire those moments when you forget to breath.  You thirst for those brief times that you tap into your soul and the words march from your fingertips, covering the paper or screen before you.

Some would say that those who desire becoming a writer aren’t actually writers. Others argue that stringing together a body of words, and publishing them, makes one a writer.

I argue that it’s the ability to tap into those moments, which make one a writer. To write is to tell a story, but to tell a story properly, one must be able to tap into the soul.  That’s where true magic is born.

kingquote

 

There will be scars.  Any writer, worth his or her salt, already knows this truth.  You may think you have written the greatest story, or collection of words, since (insert author name here), but the final decision is not up to you.  If you are an independent writer, the choice may not even be up to the reader as well!

In today’s society, ANYBODY can publish a body or work.

This does not mean that you are going to be an instant success!   Your book is now swimming in a virtual sea of books, and chances are, you aren’t going to find what you were looking for!  Neither, for that matter, is your potential reader!

You’re hurt.  You can’t understand why it didn’t work for you, the way that it did for that young lady that wrote the books about the boy wizard.  After a few months, you throw your hands in the air, in frustration, and vow to never create another word.

Mr. King, among many others who have found success as an author, know that you must have the ability to heal from these wounds.  More importantly, in his own words, you must remember the origin of every scar!

 

These three things define me, as a writer.

  1. The ability to recognize and correct one’s mistakes.
  2. Being able to tap into the soul, and infuse it into one’s work.
  3. Knowing that it is the ability to rise from failure, which defines one’s success.

Writing isn’t a science.  Ultimately, you take what works for you, and you jump right into it.  Every writer has his or her own edicts, and in truth; what does it matter, as long as he or she writes?

 

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Trespasser (Part XXVIII)

The inside of his head felt like the Fourth of July.  Small explosions built up from the center of his head, exploding near the cap of his skull, with each thundering beat of his heart.  He groaned softly, as he rubbed his temples with this thumbs, and squeezing his eyes shut with all the strength his lids could muster.

“What did I do,” he lamented.  The memories of the night before still rested beneath a blanket of alcohol.  His body ached in places he was not used to feeling.  His shoulders and arms felt heavy from exertion, the muscles stretched further than they had been in years.

The knuckles of his right hand had been swollen when he’d first opened his eyes, but a few minutes beneath a bag of frozen corn, and a couple of ibuprofen, had brought it down a little.

“…if fucking her makes me a bad person, what does killing me make you…”

Andy’s voice floated out of the darkness, a disembodied memory that demanded attention he couldn’t yet give.  John flinched at the sound of his voice, but the truth in the words weren’t yet strong enough to affect him.  At that moment, he had bigger concerns.  He stumbled with all the grace of a marionette, bouncing twice off of the walls in the hallway between his kitchen and bathroom, as a tidal wave of nausea suddenly overcame him.

“Better than you,” he said absently, an answer he’d neither thought of, nor intended to give, as he lunged toward the bowl.

He clutched at the belt of his porcelain God, opening his mouth wide as an ages old prayer erupted from the bowels of his soul.  Only, instead of mossy colored liquid he expected, he watched helplessly through watering eyes as a viscous red geyser splashed into the water below.

He coughed violently when a large mass threatened to clog his airways.

He whimpered as another spasm overcame him, dislodging the mass from his throat.  It was followed by another rush of foul liquid, and then a second blockage that passed easier than the first.

He struggled for breath, horrified by the crimson pool before him.  What was once white, was now covered in a red, oozing, smear.  But it wasn’t this on which he focused his attention.  Staring at him from foul soup of death were two milky white eyes.  Beneath these, and centered nearly where they belonged, were the partially chewed, nose, lips, and left cheek, of Andy’s face.

He didn’t know how he knew the gruesome mess belonged to the paedophile. There was nothing recognisable in the mess before him, and had what happened next, not happened, he would have later questioned why this thought came to mind.

“What’s the matter John?  Don’t you like having my meat in your throat?”

When the lips began to move, he felt the fear creeping into his soul.  When they spoke, it overtook him so completely that he began to shriek.  It was a high-pitched sound, higher than what should have been physically possible, and one that mercilessly shook him from the world of dreams.

Everything faded into the shroud between dreams and reality as his upper body sprung up from his pillow.  His eyes bulged in their sockets, and he clutched his blanket against his neck, as he shrieked until there was no breath left in him.

Trespasser (Part XXVII)

 

NOW

 

Any apprehension that what they were doing was wrong had long since fled.  He no longer remembered how they began.  Had it been a certain way Andy had looked at him?  Had it been something he’d said?  His last memory was of he and his brother following him, stalking him, as he made his rounds through the neighborhood. Once he had reached his daughter’s window, that’s where the grey area began.

He looked down as his hands, which were now throbbing and covered in blood that may or may not have been his own.  He could feel it on his face, slowly running down his right cheek.  His shirt was damp and sticky, covered in splatter from this night’s gruesome work.

“Wha-  What have I done,” he asked nobody in particular.

He was standing in the shadows, about as far from where they had planned to shackle their captive as he could have possibly moved.  He looked to where Andy should have been, to where the others should be, but there was only a large puddle of blood on the floor, and his bloody footprints, suggesting anyone had ever been there at all. It looked as if, from whatever he had done, or witnessed there, that he had back pedaled to where he now stood.

His vision blurred, and he lost his balance, falling into the wall next to him as a brief flash of memory suddenly leapt to the surface.  He saw the bloody face of his daughter’s predator looking up at him, smiling, even though his lip had been split and his eyes were swelling closed.

“…and it wath tho good,” the apparition spat, taunting him.

“…noooOOOO,” he wailed.  It was a pitiful sound, not so different than the heartbreaking cry when his baby girl had finally broken, that took him to his knees as the emotion overcame him.

He wasn’t sure how long he remained this way, but it was a firm hand on his shoulder that brought him back.  Slowly, John looked into the grim eyes of his brother, who, like himself, was covered in the blood of their victim.

“It’s done.”

John only stared at him blankly, the pain from the realisation of what they had done still having a firm grip on him.

“John?  Are you good?”

He nodded, using his brother’s offered hand to pull himself up.  He couldn’t help the tears that had fallen down his cheeks, in the same way that his daughter couldn’t help the tears that had fallen down hers.  Very much like her, his innocence had been stolen by this most foul of men.  While hers had been physical, and not of her own will, his was spiritual and knowingly given.

“I’m sorry,” he started shakily.

“No,” his brother interrupted.  “Don’t apologize,” he said with a reverent tone.  “You’re a beast, John.  A fucking monster!”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he answered solemnly.