When Directors Use An Alcoholic Girl To Play . . . An Alcoholic Girl

I keep thinking about this director I had once. I only worked for her the one time, because she was one of the single most deplorable human beings I’ve ever encountered in my life.

She Was A Mother, Wife, Abuser, Liar, And Cheat

She taught theatre classes part time at a local college, and I knew a lot of her students. The whole situation was a mess, because she was a very bad person.

Enter The Drunk Actor

I keep thinking about one of her actors, who had some substance abuse issues that nearly no one knew about. This director, the bad lady, she had a trick of getting vulnerable actors into her office and playing a sympathetic mother figure, and then later on, weeks later, she’d use the secrets she learned in private to humiliate her actors in front of their classmates.

And She Called This, “Teaching Acting”

She did that to this one actor, the one who was trying to not be an addict anymore. I just keep thinking about the student, who was being preyed on, from one side, by a couple of gay actors who harbored the kid after binges and sort of helped her hide things, and on the other side by this evil director.

The director got fired from the college, finally, over some ethics and sexual tangles, and she moved on to try and take advantage of other theatre people somewhere else.

Good Riddance, I Say

I remember being in a rehearsal with this student, the addict, and no one knew about the problem yet. The whole situation is just sad, you know? And there’s something about this kid being used by heartless young men on the one end and this older matron vampire on the other that makes me feel irritated.

Me And My Significant Other, The Super-Impoverished People (At The Time)

My partner and I ran a sort of accidental halfway house for troubled actors at the time, not officially at all, but people showed up at our door a lot, and sometimes they spent the night on a spare couch, or came to be fed. That happened a lot, actually. We helped a lot of sad, lonely young people who were lost.

We Never Knew About This Addict

I’m irritated at this addicted actor’s parents, honestly. I’m angry that the kid had no sense of safety, of knowing who to trust and where to turn for help.

I guess it would help if I explained about me again. I was bred deliberately as a sort of sexual plaything, and never had an actual family. My breeders had a rudimentary grasp of–not style, exactly, but they understood that culture was important, and they preferred their owned objects to have a veneer of class.

Because We Were Bait, And Icons

So I educated myself, because I’m not an idiot, and I don’t like to be beaten much. Partway through giving myself a well-rounded grounding in world literature, at the age of about eight or nine, I started to figure out who was safe, and who wasn’t.

Dangerous Vs. Stupid

My uncle, for example, was a very dangerous man, very powerful, very polished, and you would never, ever peg him as a homosexual. He had a great flair for dramatic camouflage, and seems to be the penultimate family man. Super responsible. He’s getting to be rich now, and he’s very accomplished in the way of legal theft.

Then there’s my particular handler, a very violent kid who was allowed to beat me when I was a child.

Sneaky Grey Areas

You see, when your parents are really your owners and breeders, and if they have any brains at all, they realize pretty quickly that siblings can hit each other, and nobody calls the cops. So we got sorted out, essentially, into who could hit whom, and when, and why. If you kept all the unspoken rules, you didn’t get hit much.

Now, my handler is a violent prick, and a dumb fuck, but he’s very sweet in his deepest soul, and if he’d ever had the guts to fight back against our owners, he might have turned out a little bit. All the evil in him comes from outside, from manipulation external to his actual soul.

As Opposed To Being Originally Evil, Himself

He’s still completely forfeit as a human being, to my mind, because he never did fight back at all, and because he’s a coward who prefers to thrust vulnerable parties in the line of fire rather than face any discomfort himself, but if everything about him was different, I wouldn’t mind him so much.

What I’m trying to say is, I can trust my handler, and I could never in a million years trust that particular uncle. My handler was predictable, and very dim. My uncle’s evil always came from right within his own heart, and he was not good news.

Back To This Alcoholic Girl

Anyway, so I keep thinking about this theatre kid, this miserable, mostly-functional alcoholic, and how the kid didn’t understand the basic, rudimentary lesson of survival among predators: That you have to know which evil dudes to run and hide with, and which to avoid like the plague.

The alcoholic girl was always hiding with the wrong kind of gay guy, and didn’t realize how that was making everything worse.

They Were Selfish Dudes

Not being a stupid person, I never tried to extract the addict, after the truth came out about the problems, but if I could go back in time, I would certainly have done a few things to go after and disable the other kids who were using her as camouflage, and getting her beer on the sly.

The one major gap in my education as an owned object was how to let myself hurt bad people. I can, of course. I just don’t, almost ever. If I went back in time, I’d use my sneaky gossip skills to take apart the shitty methods those boys were using on that poor girl.

And Also

In other news, in my current book, Crikey has made friends with his uncle Max’s new husband, and they are bonding while waiting for the gang trial to run its course.

You’re reading Victor Poole, and I’m writing a science fiction romance about a wild-game hunter, a crime lord, and an alien girl with white, furry wings and a beautiful tail. 


The Tiny Guide To Integrating Your Creative Soul

Is your energy scattered and frenetic? Here’s how to get a surge of creative potential throbbing through your body.

Your Natural Energy

I invented an energy form because all my actors were broken. Incidentally, this form works well for writing good fiction. I will now share the method with you.

Using your natural energy means hooking up the disparate parts of your energy mechanism, the parts of you that are set up to work as a natural, living animal, and channeling them into service of creating a fictional world.

Think of this as exercise for your soul, to make you bright, shining, and sexually attractive. My main shtick, as a theatre specialist, is making actors unbearably hot, as in, attractive and “zing”-y. I’m very good at that.

Good writing has a zing, and a body and soul that is aligned effectively creates more adaptive, fertile fiction, which opens the reader’s soul. That kind of shared openness leads, if the conditions are correct, to mental sex, which is where commercialism and profit come into play.

How To Do It

Your body, naturally, is an animal, and has chains of impulses that, if they’re connected, fill you with energy, bursting life, and vitality. If you’ve ever watched a cat walk around, or a really healthy animal of any kind, you’ve seen the power and flexibility in their shoulders and hips, the kind of easy, confident fluidity that runs in their muscles and shoots out through their eyes.

This is why show biz people say, “Don’t work with children or animals,” because little kids haven’t gotten deeply screwed over yet, physically, and so their eyes and muscles shine with power, just like animals’ do.

The good news is that your body already knows how to do this instinctively. You just have to plug in the main breakers for your impulse chains, and your body, as it releases civilized crap and old emotions, will embrace the method automatically.


The root of motion starts down in the pelvic cradle. Imagine, if you will, a champion jumping horse, like one of those slick creatures at the Equestrian Olympics, or a hunter type of horse. When the horse gathers itself at a fence to jump over, the body coils in and the wide, enormous pelvic cradle of the animal acts as a kind of powerful spring that launches the body up into the air.

Your pelvic cradle is the root of your motion. It’s probably closed up and tangled together right now, like a slinky, a toy metal slinky that got twisted up and caught against itself.

Imagine your pelvis is a box that is a little squished and crushed in. Open the sides to straighten and make the box a proper cube shape, and make the top and bottom level and parallel to the floor. The key is to be at square angles to the floor, and to avoid any tilt or internal collapse in the sides and floor of the pelvis. If you go and look at a well-muscled ballet dancer, you will see a very open, stable pair of hips and a strong, balanced pelvic floor.


We want to have a stable, open pelvic cradle, and to let the surge of energy, the spring that naturally rests in your body to bounce up into your ribs and freely up through the rest of you.

Now we move on to your ribs. If your ribs are stiff and holding tension, you probably aren’t breathing very much, and if the muscles between your rib bones, your interstitial muscles, are hardened, which they probably are, your impulses are getting caught into a traffic jam at your floating ribs and not making it up through your body.

What we want is to soften and open the rib cage, from the very bottom of your floating ribs all the way up to your clavicle. We’ll do this the same way we worked on your pelvis, by imagining the rib cage as a box. This time the box is rectangular.

Again, we want to have stable, perpendicular sides and a level top and bottom that are parallel to the floor and matching up exactly to the box of our pelvic cradle.

Now that we’ve softened and aligned our ribs, our impulses are flooding straight from our pelvic cradle up to our ribs; now it’s time to open the channel into our face, to get that intriguing light and power pouring into our eyes.


The face is the part of the impulse chain that makes you distinctive, and that adds a personal flair to your work. Actors learn to focus the majority of their energy into their facial muscles and their eyes, which is why movie stars look so incredibly distinct and individual. They carry a stamp, a proprietary branding of energy shaping and impulse style.

Your writing spark, your stamp of self in your personality and your eyes, is what will eventually make you unforgettable, but you have to free and loosen the impulse chain to trammel in an open river from your newly-stable pelvis, through your emotionally-softened ribs, and into your distinctive, one-of-a-kind face.

We’ll do this by opening the tunnel of our necks and imagining hot, molten power pouring up from the pelvis straight up through the actual bones and muscles of the ribs, and into the bone and muscle of your face.

And Getting To Work

Now that your body is full of energy and light, get to work as a writer, and your words will start to jump and spring a little, just like our champion jumping horse leaps over barriers. You’ll have hiccups, and your body will jolt and adjust over time, but if you embrace your natural impulse chain and let yourself settle into the form your body wants to take, your writing will get stronger, better, more distinctive, and much more flavorful to the reader.

In Conclusion

Utilizing the natural energy in your physical body will strengthen your writing and empower your style.

  • The pelvic cradle is a box of steel or hardwood: make it level, open, and square
  • The ribs are a rectangular box, more like strong cardboard that can give and bend: open the ribs, level and straighten your parallel lines at every side
  • Your face is the key to your zing, your personality and intriguing star power: open the channel of your energy and flood your facial muscles and bones with hot light from the root of energy down in your pelvic cradle

You’re reading Victor Poole, and one of my favorite villains is struggling with the temptation to pound people today, and is resisting the urge.

The Grey Cat Analogy To Fix Your Flow

You may, if you are anything like me, have experienced that disconcerting moment when someone is reading your story, or your book, or your what-have-you, and they run across a part that they clearly don’t get. At all.

A Disconnect

It’s usually a part that you like, because fate is like that, and you might feel sort of like the person who has reacted in such an incongruous manner is an idiot. You may even want to tell them so. Loudly.

Because You’re Mad

However. Here we come up against the golden rule of performance, which is that whatever the audience sees is a valid interpretation (unless they’re drunk or on drugs, or otherwise incapable of perceiving a generally accepted reality through the normal methods).

Presumably, you are not thrusting your writing into the hands of crazy people. Most likely, the people you are giving your good stuff to are friends or near relations, even. In such a circumstance, what is to be done?

Aside From Shouting

You could, of course, become a writing hermit and never speak to the person again. That works, but it doesn’t usually make your prose flow better.

Grey Cat Hiccups

People, readers, get lost from the internal action of your story when you haven’t provided enough information for them to inhabit and understand the characters.

For example:

There is a tidy grey cat who lives in my house. She is mostly nice, except for the moments when she gets a wild urge up her ass and starts thrashing around like a crazed hamster outrunning death himself. Those times, she’s sort of irritating.

Because She Claws The Furniture

If, however, I put myself into the tiny grey body of said cat, and imagine myself living in the house, and having no furred friends or consistent prey to socialize with, I start to sympathize with her occasion bouts of hair-raising insanity. If I imagine myself really as the little cat, I almost look with fondness on her escapades, with an air of, “Oh, yes, that thing you need to do so you don’t claw my face off in boredom.” (And yes, she has toys, and attention.)

Victor, You’re Getting Off Topic Again!

No, I’m not. Your reader is me, and the writing is my grey cat. Your writing, if you’re like me, often goes on a slippery, wild goose-chase, and you’re inhabiting the vehicle of the story, and you don’t notice.

Because of authorial excitement, or inspiration

Your readers notice, very much, and they stare at the crazy, incoherent jumble of words that approximate claw marks and breathless yowls, and they say: “What the hell happened to the nice story I was reading?”

And you get mad, because why aren’t they following? Gosh! It’s almost like they’re being dense on purpose!

However, the problem is in a lack of a strong meeting place; in essence, you have a problem with flow.

Fix Flow Fast

Look at that silly alliteration. My boy has been telling me lately that bicycle and popsicle alliterate. I correct him constantly, but he’s confused about rhymes. Anyway.

Here’s That Fix:

To fix your flow, you need to learn how to inhabit the detached, coffee-sipping mindset of your reader. If you can do that, you will yourself become mildly irritated, if not downright outraged, at the grey-cat shenanigans that pop up in your prose when you go off on a sudden chase of emotional passion over some trick of words or characterization.

Then you can apply some editorial catnip and get things calmed down again, and keep your reader friends, too.

Today is Wednesday, and I’m Victor Poole, and I’m too busy to write you a sample today. Ajalia says hello, but Mary’s taking up most of my attention on editing fixes. Cheers.

The Quick And Dirty Guide To Writing Human Nature

Bad Writing:

Elton was having a very bad day. His date stood him up, his favorite hunting dog turned into a cat, and the prophesied comet fizzled out fifteen feet before it hit the appropriate mountain.

Elton had been waiting several years for the promised comet, and he had based several of his life goals around the fact of Mt. Halber being pretty much leveled, and half the population of the world destroyed.

Elton, you see, was an evil overlord, and he had been working to secure the loyalty and fear of the other half, the supposed-to-survive half of the world’s people for most of his life.

Now the comet had come, and there were all the people, going on living as if nothing had happened at all. Elton was annoyed about this. If he’d been ready for a cosmic failure on this scale, he would have built an undertone of religious warfare into the scriptures he’d been feeding his followers for the last fifteen years. He hadn’t known, and now he was scrambling for an image adjustment.

Good Writing:

Elton was having a very bad day. His date had flipped when he stood her up, his favorite hunting dog had been turned into a cat, and the prophesied comet had fizzled out fifteen feet before it hit the appropriate mountain that morning.

“If you had married that nice girl from our village, Elton, none of this would have happened,” his mother told him over the enchanted conch.

“Mom, Ellen Ripple died ten years ago of supin cough. So I couldn’t marry her, and if I had, she would be dead now. Then my life would be more of a mess,” Elton said, as he watched the bridge master torture his latest magician, who had failed to make the newly-christened Whiskers back into Spot. “It’s kind of a bad time, mom. I have to go out and get that cosmic dust from the comet. I’ll call you back.”

Elton had been waiting several years for the promised comet, and he had based several of his life goals around the premise of Mt. Halber being pretty much leveled, and half the population of the world destroyed.

“Sweetheart, that’s only a dirty old rock, and you’ve already accomplished all the goals on your sweet little checklist. I still have it on my fridge. ‘World domination.’ Sweetie, you did that one already. Just forget the comet, and get ready for Jasmine. I’m sending flowers in your name, so she’ll already like you.”

“Mom, I’m not seeing Jasmine tonight, I have a war council to run. Goodbye. I love you.”

Elton, you see, was an evil overlord, and he had been working to secure the loyalty and fear of the other half, the supposed-to-survive half of the world’s people for most of his life.

Now the comet had come, and it had fizzled, and there were all the people, both halves, going on living as if nothing had happened at all. Elton was annoyed about this. If he’d been ready for a cosmic failure on this scale, he would have built an undertone of religious warfare into the scriptures he’d been feeding his followers for the last fifteen years. He hadn’t known, and now he was scrambling for an image adjustment. His mother’s persistent attempts to hook him up with good-hearted females from her neighborhood was doing little to ease his way, partially because they were all sweet women, and partially because Elton had to readjust into evil mode whenever he spoke to them, to let them know his mom was misrepresenting the situation.

He’d spoken to Jasmine only this morning, and she had shrieked when she learned that Elton Yurbo was actually the dread majesty Rakendo, Bringer of Death. Elton sighed, and watched Whiskers push himself, purring, against the howling magician’s leg.

You’re reading Victor Poole. This week is the feasting week, and the sky is still blue where I live. Today was not at all like a Sunday, though tomorrow will most decidedly be like a Monday. (I like Mondays.)

The Easy Way To Write That Feels Like Playing

  1. Start with a strong image. Include at least two details that can be seen, felt, or smelt.
  2. Introduce a character with a phonetically-friendly name. (Bad name: Blithgirou. Good name: Biltog.) Give said character a task that, again, includes one or two sensory packages (these are like bacon bits in a salad, unless you hate salads, in which case they are like cherries in the poison of your choice).
  3. Follow the well-named task-performing character until a lull appears in the action.
  4. Introduce another, more boring-named character. (Bad name: Hyacinth. Good name: Ginger.) Write some work-a-day dialogue, with as much humor as you can stir up.
  5. Blow everything up. If you don’t know how to destroy a narrative, learn how. Your only rules now are: ONE: Biltog and Ginger must always say “yes” with their hearts, and TWO: neither of them can die or get chewed up beyond the point of functionality.

Then write what happens to make Biltog and Ginger ONE: stay together, TWO: like each other, and THREE: get free of whatever trouble is chewing on their heels.


The morning sun blistered over the Hulon sea, making purple mist spin up into a sky that smelled of new roses. The air was hot, but not unpleasantly so, as Biltog paddled his aluminum boat through the shallows. The splash of the dark water and the hum of the singing fish made Biltog sigh with pleasure. There was nothing so beautifully quiet as going out for the morning catch of merl-kits all alone. He savored the solitude, and the feel of his paddle as he carved through the sea was satisfying against his muscles.

The collection of the netted merl-kits went without any hitch, and Biltog had stowed his boat and was halfway up the slope to the road when a long, echoing scream shattered the morning air. Biltog frowned and turned, examining the landscape. He could see no one. The scream came again, and Biltog looked up.

He shouted in surprise and ducked just in time to miss the rocketing form of a tidy female who was ploughing through the air like a drunken sea-hawk. She crashed most unceremoniously into a grassy knoll, and Biltog dropped his nets and ran to her.

“Are you okay?” he demanded. She scattered wildly back, her hair in enormous tufts and her skin flushed.

“Uh, yes,” she said, staring at him. He blushed. She was quite pretty, if tousled, with dark brown hair and terrifically bright green eyes.

“You’re nice-looking,” Biltog said blankly. He gasped, and hurried towards his nets. He heard the female laugh behind him, and he hated himself a lot, because her laugh was even prettier than her face.

“Wait! Hey, wait up! I’m sorry for crashing at you,” she called. He heard her coming after him, and he walked faster, his eyes wide and his mouth in a snarl of embarrassment. “Hey!” she cried, and some very soft fingers caught at his arm.

Biltog gasped again, because he felt very foolish. He twisted to the side and stared at her legs. She was wearing a sort of home-made flight suit, and had thick patches over her knees.

“I’m really sorry, miss,” Biltog said.

“I’m not. I’m glad you think I’m pretty. What’s your name? I’m Ginger,” she said brightly, holding out her hand.

“Uh, Biltog,” he said. He reached out, for she seemed determined in a way that intimidated him, and shook her hand. He let go as soon as he thought was polite and snatched up his nets. “I don’t know why anyone would call you Ginger,” he added, and blushed again.

“Because my hair’s not red. My mum named me for my aunt. What are you named for?” she asked.

“Where’s your—what were you flying with?” Biltog asked.

“Only this,” she said, turning to show a set of green tubes sewn into the back of her clothes. “It was going really well until I got into that sea air. I think the vapor got into my intake valves. I should stay away from this part of the coast.”

“Oh,” he said. They stared at each other for a minute. “Um, I’m named after a big star from my father’s home system,” he said quickly.

“That’s very nice,” Ginger said. He nodded. Biltog scraped his boot over the road.

“Well,” Biltog said.

An explosion to their left made them both jump. The purple sea expanded massively, a wave surging up as if an enormous boulder had landed far out in the water. Biltog stared at the sudden flight of winged fish that burst from the sea. Droplets of water flew like shining crystals behind the scaled bodies of the creatures.

With a roar that made Biltog think the world was tearing in half, a huge cylinder of metal rose up from the disturbed waters of the sea. It was as large as a building, and it throttled up into the clouds. Slender vessels peeled from the sides of the monstrous shape and flared out in all directions. A cluster of the ships rocketed straight for the hill upon which they stood.

Ginger grabbed Biltog’s hand. He dropped his nets and closed his fingers over hers.

“Run!” he cried.

You’re reading Victor Poole. My science fiction heroes met a notorious gang boss lately. Tomorrow is Sunday, which means it will no longer be Saturday.

3 Simple Steps That Will Bring Internal Movement

You might be stagnant right now. Emotionally, I mean. To write well, you’ve got to open up your internal flow. Here’s how.

What Causes Emotional Stagnation?

Gosh, nearly everything can. Fear of what may be, spiritual possession, emotional theft, and the opening of tremors from your past all slow the internal flow.

How To Diagnose Yourself

If you’re emotionally stagnant, you have a lot of energy blockage through your heart and in your neck. You have a hard time breathing, and your brain feels just a little hazy.

Send your mind down into your home-center, which is right under the top of your sternum. Picture, let’s see.


Now, somewhere under the tip of that bone there’s a cluster of prescient knowledge about yourself. If you shove your concentration in there, and let yourself feel things, a person or a situation is going to rise up in your mind.

There it is; that’s the source for what you’re experiencing just now. Sometimes there are ten things stacked on top of each other, but for now, we’ll only look at the top one.

Pull it out of your body, as if it were a piece of colored tissue paper, and let it hover in the air right in front of your chest.

Step One: Tear The Paper Up

We’ve pulled out the top-most cause of your stagnation, and imagined it as a colored piece of tissue paper. Go ahead and tear it all to bits. Really rip the thing to shreds, as if you were trying to make sure there was no piece left bigger than your thumb.

Once you’ve destroyed that piece, make the scraps into a little heap on the floor at your feet. Got that? Great.

Step Two: Bring Fire From The Lumbar Vertebrae

Your spine is filled with three different sections of vertebrae; the bottommost bones are called the lumbar vertebrae. Here’s a picture:


Those bottom ones are what we want. Now, at the very base of your spine, imagine a lick of fire, like the flame of a steadily-burning candle, right between the double rise of your pelvic bones. This fire is going to burn up your lumbar vertebrae, and when it reaches the full top of that gentle curve, take a lick of fire into your hand and put the flame into your heap of paper on the floor.

Take that fire and lay it against the tissue paper scraps. The colored scraps will burn up as readily as hair, and leave something like mist behind.

Step Three: Breathe In The Mist

You’re going to consume your burned-up problem now. Like a cleansing acid (the friendly kind), that mist from the colored paper will flow through your nostrils, down through your lungs, and spread all in your veins.

Your own pain acts as an accelerant to your natural soul. Pulling out, burning, and then breathing in your blockage eats away all the blockage, and makes a temporary surge of comfort and sweet pain, like love, flow all through your aura.

And Now You Can Write With Loosened, Free Emotions

To recap: send your mind behind the top of your sternum, and find a knot of colored energy there. Pull that energy out; it’s a thought of a person, or about a situation in your life. It doesn’t matter what it is, or how you feel about  it.

Pull the energy out, and imagine it as a solid piece of colored tissue paper hovering in the air in front of your chest.

Now tear it all to bits and arrange it in a tidy heap just at your feet. Feel a flame of licking, raw fire at the base of your spine, and allow it to burn up and fill your lumbar curve. As soon as the fire fills up to the tip of that lumbar section, take some flame in your hand and feed it against the pile of tissue paper.

The paper will consume at once into a sweet mist; breathe in that mist, and feel a rush of warmth, of bittersweet longing, and of emotional life go through your veins.

And Now, You’re Ready To Write

This is an exercise that takes just a moment to perform. In three steps, you can bring strong movement through your emotional life and write with clear, bright feeling and a strong flow.

You’re reading Victor Poole. My books are designed to heal several hidden things.

Jumpstart Your Writing Voice In Five Minutes

How To Get Stronger Voice

Standing out in the crowd of books is hard; to make yourself unique and memorable, the more you can sound like your deepest self, the better.

First, Strip Tension

This is really hard to sustain without repetition, but it’s physically based, and you can familiarize yourself with the technique in five minutes.

If it helps, think of it like the river Jordan–you know the dude who had to go bathe in the mud to heal his leprosy, but he refused? And his slave was like, “Dude, you totally would have done anything hard Elijah told you to, so why won’t you do this stupid shit?” And then the captain was like, “Fuck it, you’re right,” and jumped into the river Jordan.

Peeling Pretension Starts In Your Outer Hips

There’s a muscle that runs along the outside of your hips and upper thighs. Here, I’ll find a picture online.

Here you go. We’re looking at the tensor fasciae latae, right on the side there, at the top.


This muscle hugs your femur, and it can become enormously tight and overused in artificially supporting your skeletal system.

Step One Is Relaxing This Muscle

To slip into your authentic, unique writing voice, put your fingers into your fasciae latae on either side, and push down hard, ploughing through the muscle and down your outer thigh.

This works best if you start at the flat part outside your hip, just on either side of your pelvis, and then rub down, as if your hips were full of jelly, and you were squeezing it down towards your knees (or toothpaste in a tube; that’s a better analogy).

If You Feel Pain, That’s Good

Whether or not you hold bad tension here, combing the muscle down against the bone should create an influx of deeper breath through your lungs, and a sense of relaxation through your core.

If you tense hard against the relaxation, then you have serious problems through your spine. In this case, skip to step two, and also, start doing a half-spinal twist (yoga, I’ll find an image), every night before you go to bed.

Half-Spinal Screw

half spine

Link here. The internet wants to call this “Half Lord of the Fishes,” but I learned spinal screw. Whatevs. It will pull at your tensor fasciae, if you do it gently, and loosen the muscle on each side over time (which will improve the state of your spine).

Step Two Is To Find Pain In Your Mind

Everyone in the world carries fear, trepidation, and insecurity in their minds. This is formulated of different shades of color, depending on the tones of your aura.

If you close your eyes and imagine a scared feeling, you’ll get a sudden, warm sense of color in your imagination. It doesn’t matter what the color is; fix your mind on it, and allow it to seep out and cover your whole face, as if you’re wearing an air-bubble of that color around your skull.

What Will This Cloud Of Fear Do?

Fear creates common ground, and tastes like humility to the reader. Carrying insecurity and an ability to be hurt on your face protects you from pretension, since no frightened person can seem completely hauteur-ish.

So, To Recap Thus Far

First we rub our fingers hard along our tensor fasciae latae, to create pain, relaxation, and deep breath. Second, we find a lick of color that tastes like fear in our minds, and urge it out like a cloud around our whole heads.

Next, And Finally, We Write From The Groin

If you’re biologically male, you imagine your writer-brain in the nestling warmth of your testicles and the base of your shaft. If you’re female, you imagine the writer-brain in the depth of the vaginal and clitoral area.

This sounds insane, but remember, we’re river-Jordaning our way into fresh, authentic voice.

Anyone Who Writes From Sexuality Sounds Raw

Your authentic voice will rise naturally, between the sudden release in your hips, the deeper breath through your lungs, the exposed sense of self throughout your face and mind, and your writing impulses should flow surely and instinctively from the base of your sexual organs.

Yeah, it sounds really unconventional.

You Can Do This In Five Minutes

Improving the unique, fresh tone of your voice in writing is an integral part of winning followers. To recap, dig your fingers firmly along the latae on both sides (which will feed a need for sudden breath and relaxation through the lower spine), find and release a twist of fear-color from somewhere inside your brain, and then write while imagining the energy for such rolling up from the depths of your sexual organs.

The worst that can happen is you’ll get a deep sense of embarrassment for reading about Victor’s crazy methods on the internet. The best that can happen is that you’ll have instantly clearer voice in your writing, and a simple technique you can use to drop into your authentic voice any time.

You’re reading Victor Poole. To release deep rage, and process gendered fear, read my fantasy series when I put it out. I cleaned the shit out of my files this afternoon.