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The key word of the rebellion: awareness. The verb forged on the thin membrane of his brain. Like an old black and white film in his mind echoed the words of Burroughs: " A writer can write only one thing: what's in front of his senses at the time of writing ... I'm not a recording instrument ... I presume to impose a "theory", a "plot", a "continuity" ... As long as I can record directly to certain areas of psychic process I have limited features ... my goal is not to entertain ... ".

unacceptable.

had been aware from the outset of his goal. Educating for good writing. With good stories. Writers like Burroughs were the enemies. The other species. Those who technique is the enemy.

See what's on the tip of the fork: shit passes for a good meal. Their writing is bare, only capable of producing excrement.

"You had to have more awareness. You have underestimated your disciples. " Martin put his glass of rum on the table.

Luana returned to focus on the speech of his guest "There are always risks. There are always people over the top. I figured everything. "

Martin motioned to the waiter, "Another."

watched the local level. His disciples were bent over their notebooks. Groups of five persons intent to apply rules and words to be chained to their queen.

His writing workshop.

Martin leaned forward, a few inches from the face of Luana: "Perhaps you did not understand the problem well. Your fierce irony gave head to someone. You know who you are. If I'm not wrong your project was to reveal some altars and giving advice to aspiring. But ... from a certain point of view, someone Sbrocco.

She took the pineapple juice and took a sip.

"I mean, this is not ... well more 'I have the impression that it has crossed the threshold."

Luana put the glass down, rubbed his lip: "You are experiencing the influence of the enemy, Martin. Here there is no war in progress. This is just text. There are only good intentions to save money and advice to readers. "

Martin took a cigarette from the table. He lit it. A deep breath. Dense exhalation of awe.

"No, Luana. You're wrong. I have been a great supporter and your also a supporter of freedom of choice is that the writer of the reader. On my blog I was able to discern between a good criticism, suggestions for readings and personal attacks and targeted. I learned to differentiate between the souls of good will and damned souls. I, at least, recommended deployment does not impose. Instead, your brand has become a sword of Damocles on the head writers. And your blog has become a haven for aspiring writers and readers looking for interesting and useful reading for a destination for writers and pseudo Executioner failed. We are creating factions and even racist resentment toward certain types of readers. "

Luana closed hands. Squeezed. The long nails to scratch his skin. He slammed his fists on the table. Aspiring stopped writing and the place is blocked pending the smoke opacity lighting.

"Enough is enough. I can not deny any interest in what I do. Do not you dare to accuse me of any kind of frustration. Your paranoia is only dictated by your failure as a blogger. Are your reviews, peppered with crap to annoy the readers. Are you aspiring. If I remember correctly, you're the one who once wrote stories in the hope of publication. I never had aspirations to do so. "

Martin stood up. He moved the chair and picked up his pack of cigarettes. He finished his rum.

"Luana, I'm sorry. I understand that you've made your choice. I was hoping for one ... your patience. I want to clarify that you come down to same level as your enemy diversity is envy. "

She pushed the table hitting Martin in the thigh.

"Enough! Do not you dare insult me \u200b\u200bin my house. Get out. "

Martin while pawing the injured leg, bowed and disappeared, leaving behind a string of beads pixels.

Luana glanced at the tables. His disciples watched with eyes wide and shining. The Queen put his hand to his heart. " Show, do not tell!" . They reach into the heart and reciprocated in unison: " Show, do not tell!" .

Vincent, with his hand to the heart, along with some loyalists, smiled, closing his eyes. " Show, do not tell or die." the tip of the fork is just shit.

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Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 4

Avalon

"Extrapolate phrases from a broader context does not do justice to the quality of the text. This only serves to context and bring water to their mill. "

Everton:

"@ Avalon

You do not want just understand. It is not just expressions of bad taste as "The boy was old," "Lara was beautiful, a beauty all women, who do not show anything and they want to vomit, but also of logic. Because the main character did not kill the bad guy when he had a chance under the bridge Taur? And we are tired of the same stories. Enough of these ogres and orcs.

Avalon

"@ Everton:

You see that you have not read My novel, but you stop to the review of Loris, because there is no ogre in my story. Then if the protagonist has lashed the decisive blow to the enemy can be understood only by following the course of history. But then you always know how things go, right? You have your manual and your stupid rules. Do you know where you get your ridiculous comments? You're just whipping people and envious. "

Vincent:

@ Avalon

" You're an established author whose mastery of writing techniques is certified by the publication by a major publishing house, so do not listen well to criticism, say clearly, 99% are the result of envy passes for competence. "

disconnect in place.

Too easy. Yes, all too simple.

Thanks to this last shot, Vincenzo, had managed to inflict upon the enemy's yet another defeat. His arrogance and his vanity was too obvious a target. The rest of his enemy felt a rockstar literature.

The only viable alternative that his enemy was able to take was the display of erudition in the service of an improbable and his few faithful readers. A screen to save the crippling embarrassment of his style. Could not write, he knew well. So, he decided to invent intellectual . Result: in a pathetic post on the proliferation of historical research of the setting of his next novel seal of his dedication and authority. As if that served to improve his writing and his artistic talent. As if the information could claim a divine right to the narrative capacity of any brilliant craftsman.

A history of Nazism is the shit that is still a history of shit. A wonderful story that speaks of Nazism is still a wonderful story. Shit, do not have the same chemistry.

Yet these results did not lead to anything. There were still many readers who followed him and who were willing to keep reading so much other shit.

Two possibilities on the horizon for Vincent: let it go and focus on the potential of his writing or persuade the queen to go to Plan C. But the queen would never have supported this choice. Perhaps someone else, however, would be convinced. After all, a bit 'of terror would have shaken the real environment.

Vincent raised his helmet to chess and took off his helmet. He put the laptop on the floor. He rose from the sofa and went to the wall plastered the pictures of his enemy . He stretched his gaze to a picture that portrayed him with a smiling face. He put his hand next to the white face of his enemy .

"How much money have you fooled, eh? How many of you have pocketed my money? You've stolen the dream. You took my place. Should I be there for you. Me with my big novel, "Vincent shook the hand of the photo. The sides began to break away from the wall, the eyes of the enemy were lost in the palm of Vincent.

"You'll pay dearly. You pay with your buddies. This is the time of redemption. The time of redemption of the verb submerged and forgotten. Our words become weapons. Our words become meat. Our flesh will devour your flesh. You will be consumed, eaten and vomited. "

tore the pictures off the wall, rolling it.

He approached the small ball to his mouth and began to devour it.