Justin Rawlinson

Tag: creative-writing

  • An Early Grave

    Authors Note: This is a break from my normal style. I had a song stuck in my head, and started writing it to that beat. I’m not much of a song writer, nor have I ever tried to be, but this one wanted to come out. Hope you enjoy it.

    It’s a false divide, the hate that we feel,

    It’s all in our mind, they paid for the right

    To reap what you think, and control what you love,

    But those thoughts aren’t yours,

    They create this in us, the hate that we feel

    Got us toeing that line, keeping us stuck

    Keep on spitting our hate, while we’re working our way

    To an early grave,

    Marching in time to the lies that they give.

    Hate in our eyes, and hope is in chains,

    Nothing left but our pride and our pain.

    We’re hoping for a return, of a decent time,

    Or we yearn for a life, full of stubborn ass pride,

    But that life’s a myth, it’s one of their ploys

    We know we can’t get there, not while we sit by

    Being owned by the men in their suits,

    They’re running their shows and spitting out hate,

    Pushing us on our way

    To that early grave,

    Marching in time to the lies that they give.

    Hate in our eyes, and hope is in chains,

    Nothing left but our pride and our pain.

    We can keep on living, buried in the past,

    Head in the sand, a foot out the door,

    Trying to make our way, to that made-up place

    Something beyond, but it’s all right here

    If only we’d choose, to unburden it now

    Instead we line up, giving them more

    Their hate is a burden, put down on our souls,

    We’re all just so calloused and sore

    If we give it up now, I think we’d just create more.

    Plotting our way,

    To an early grave,

    Marching in time to the lies they gave.

    Hate in our eyes, and hope is in chains,

    Nothing left but our pride and our pain.

    Living in the past, or moving on past

    Trying to find a key that will open us up

    To unlock our heart and let loose our pride

    But our pride’s the root, of all of our woes

    It keeps us in step, raising our fists

    And fighting ourselves, instead of facing our faults

    We’re keeping the best parts of ourselves

    Locked in our vaults, all hidden away

    Until it’s time to go home.

    To an Early Grave.

    Marching in time to the lies they gave.

    Hate in our eyes, and hope is in chains,

    Nothing left but our pride and our pain.

    And maybe there’s a point, where we stand up and say,

    Enough is enough, we’ve given all you’ll take,

    Or maybe we’ll continue, just like years before

    Until someone else has the nerve to push against

    An Early Grave.

  • Writing as Craft, Writing as Liberation

    Writing — both a craft and an art — liberates the soul. But it also makes my head hurt.

    I have no idea how other writers do this, but before I fall asleep, I find myself spinning scenes in my head. I think about what’s next in my story — what my characters will do and how they’ll do it. These nighttime imaginings are how The Rise of the God of War, my grimdark fantasy novel, was born. For months — six of them, though it felt like a decade — I lay in bed with the first scene echoing in my head. Eventually, I started writing.

    I had never written anything longer than a few thousand words. The idea of a full-length novel — 100,000 words or more — was daunting. Even as I write this, I still wonder if the words are good enough. The idea of someone reading my book, whether for feedback or enjoyment, often feels ludicrous. Why would they?

    And yet, I wrote. Slowly at first. Bits and pieces. Then, something clicked. I sat down and poured it out — 110,000 words over a few months. I had done it. I had written a book.

    Then came my first test reader. Notes. Critiques. I got defensive. My second reader offered more. I realized something essential: I wasn’t done. In fact, I didn’t even fully understand the process I had entered.

    So I stepped away. Life got busy — work, career, all the usual distractions. For six years, the novel sat quietly. I poked at it now and then, made small edits, wrote the occasional scene. But if I’m honest, I did nothing.

    The truth? I was scared. Still am. Fear has always been the loudest voice in the room — fear of rejection, fear of being mediocre, fear of putting in all the effort and getting nothing back. That no one would care. Or worse, that they would — and find it lacking.

    The other problem was belief. Or the lack of it. I had no solid evidence that I could do this. Not really. Sure, college professors gave glowing reviews of my essays. Sure, test readers gave positive feedback. But I discounted all of it. Ignored the evidence — because that’s what fear tells us to do.

    But here’s what I’ve come to understand: I’m not trying to be the greatest novelist in the history of storytellers. I just want to give shape to the ideas that live inside my head — to let others walk through the world I’ve created.

    If there’s a moral to this story, it’s this: if you write, write. If you paint, paint. If you fix cars, get out the wrench. Don’t let the fear of finishing stop you from starting. We’ve all heard that the worst thing someone can say is “no.” But that’s not true. The worst thing we can hear is nothing at all — because we never dared to try.