I Deleted Social Media

Post #1

I got rid of my social media accounts. I will post here. It won’t be anything fancy. I want to keep the content as craft related as possible so I will have to fight the need for furious off-color rants posted during the peak of my caffeine high at four in the morning.

Why did I delete my social media if I’m an author looking for exposure?

I don’t like the vibe anymore. I’m too old for that lifestyle of: Look at my life. Look. Cool, huh? My life? At this point in my life there are enough people looking into my affairs without any prompting from me. What I’m saying is I don’t need to post a picture for people to know my business. And I’m old and ugly; you don’t want to see my ‘I woke up like this’ post. But most of all, on my time away from the harsh realities of daily life, in my few moments of escape from the modern terrors of secular existence, the last thing I want to do is waste the precious and fleeting gift of consciousness on scrolling through other people’s daily drama. I think social media has a big impact on your thought patterns, whether this is good or bad I guess is subjective to the consumer. I’m not going to rant. I want to. But I won’t. I’m going to stay classy.

In the meantime I’m going to get really good at telling the stories I want to tell. I’m devouring books and finding my style. I’m enjoying the journey and the vindication of improvement. I’m living minimally, focusing on what’s important to me and cropping out the rest.

I’ve made peace with the fact this may take a while, and I may never be what I’m setting out to be. But I think if I tried and I stayed consistent that I would be an author. Maybe not a successful author. But an author.

I’m thinking about refining all my short stories and putting out a self-published hardcover (Amazon just started doing hardcovers) of the complete works of Gregory Patrick Travers. At least that way if I die before completing my true legacy, I will have the collection of these stories as my back-up legacy. But fingers crossed we get to do the other legacy.

My First Kill Scene

Here is an excerpt from the horror manuscript I’m currently writing…

No one suspects a thing.

It is because of the voices that he is here in wait tonight. They told him to silence the harlot. They told him to kill Cheryl for what she had done. He is helpless to refute their commands. And so he will kill her.

She had nearly gotten into the car with her sibling after the game. That would have ruined everything. But she decided to walk. The voices were happy with that.

He peeks out one eye from behind the rhytidome pillar. She is a ways away but she is nearing. She is beautiful. Like a princess. Her blonde strands shimmer under the moonlight. Her skin is milky and soft. The way her hips sway as she walks enraptures him. His veins course with exhilaration.

He tightens his grip around the knife handle and falls back behind cover. He waits. He counts to ten. He peeks one eye out from behind the tree for a second time. She is seven houses away. Seven trees. The breeze that passed through him moments earlier reaches her, tossing back the curly golden tips of hair sweeping her shoulders. She braces the intercourse but shows no signs of displeasure. She is content. She is sure-footed.

She doesn’t suspect a thing.

He moves back behind the tree and takes a breath. He listens to the throaty song of crickets. Most of all, he listens to the absence of the voices. They are satisfied for the moment.

He hears her footsteps draw closer. She is humming a gentle melody to herself. Her voice is exquisite.

He will slice open her voice box.

He feels it is time to proceed. He steps out from behind the tree. He conceals the knife behind his back. He walks toward her like he has been strolling for some time and pretends he does not see her.

She is three houses away when she notices him. She is unprepared for the recognition that follows. He allows them to meet glances. He smiles benignly, portraying a mirrored reticence. This will disarm her, he believes. For a moment her stride latches and she considers crossing the street. She decides against it. She believes him to be innocuous. Truly, she does not know him at all.