Jordan Antonacci's Blog, page 66

It’s Time to Begin

Four-and-a-half long, dark and cold months later, and I’ve spit out the third draft of my upcoming mystery novel, The Killed Conscience.

[image error]

Book blurb:

Still at the beginning of her career, investigative journalist Emilee Weathers is eager for a name and hungry for the perfect story, no matter how she has to get it. When a detective, Nichols, calls asking Emilee to assist him in finding new evidence for a convicted serial killer’s appeal, it seems the perfect story has come knocking at her door.

But not long after arriving to the mountain town of Pigeon Forge, Emilee discovers the body of another, more recent victim. With the body showing signatures of the already-convicted serial killer, Emilee is left wondering if she’s happened upon the work of a copycat, or if the real killer was ever even caught. The more she looks though, the murkier everything becomes. The police begin withholding information and the killer seems capable of going any length to protect his identity. On top of it all, when her investigations uncover the buried secrets of those closest to her, Emilee questions who it is she can and can’t trust in those mountains, if anyone at all.

 

I’ve had a handful of extremely helpful betareaders give the book a read. I’ve taken each of their feedback and made adjustments as necessary to the writing–and I believe what I have now is a beautifully polished MS. I can almost see my reflection in it. But, is it enough?

I don’t know. As the writer, I’m too close to all of this madness. However, I can always use another pair of eyes to go over everything.

If you’d like to give the manuscript a read for betareading or reviewing purposes, you can either comment below or email me at misterhushhush@gmail.com

Also, let me know what you think of the book blurb. I fear it may be a bit lengthy.

I’m also approaching the lingering question that’s been on my mind since–well, birth, basically: To traditionally or self-publish? My first trip with self-publishing taught me a lot, but if I go that route, I’m going to need a lot of help: reviewers, bloggers, blog tours, etc. If any of you reading would be interested/ know anyone who would be interested, do let me know.

Thanks for reading! Hope to hear from a few of you soon

It’s Time to Begin

Four-and-a-half long, dark and cold months later, and I’ve spit out the third draft of my upcoming mystery novel, The Killed Conscience.

[image error]

Book blurb:

Still at the beginning of her career, investigative journalist Emilee Weathers is eager for a name and hungry for the perfect story, no matter how she has to get it. When a detective, Nichols, calls asking Emilee to assist him in finding new evidence for a convicted serial killer’s appeal, it seems the perfect story has come knocking at her door.

But not long after arriving to the mountain town of Pigeon Forge, Emilee discovers the body of another, more recent victim. With the body showing signatures of the already-convicted serial killer, Emilee is left wondering if she’s happened upon the work of a copycat, or if the real killer was ever even caught. The more she looks though, the murkier everything becomes. The police begin withholding information and the killer seems capable of going any length to protect his identity. On top of it all, when her investigations uncover the buried secrets of those closest to her, Emilee questions who it is she can and can’t trust in those mountains, if anyone at all.

 

I’ve had a handful of extremely helpful betareaders give the book a read. I’ve taken each of their feedback and made adjustments as necessary to the writing–and I believe what I have now is a beautifully polished MS. I can almost see my reflection in it. But, is it enough?

I don’t know. As the writer, I’m too close to all of this madness. However, I can always use another pair of eyes to go over everything.

If you’d like to give the manuscript a read for betareading or reviewing purposes, you can either comment below or email me at misterhushhush@gmail.com

Also, let me know what you think of the book blurb. I fear it may be a bit lengthy.

I’m also approaching the lingering question that’s been on my mind since–well, birth, basically: To traditionally or self-publish? My first trip with self-publishing taught me a lot, but if I go that route, I’m going to need a lot of help: reviewers, bloggers, blog tours, etc. If any of you reading would be interested/ know anyone who would be interested, do let me know.

Thanks for reading! Hope to hear from a few of you soon

Man on the Moon

[image error]

I’ve always been extremely self-aware. Hardly a moment goes by when I’m not standing on the outside, looking back at myself. It’s truly a gift and a curse. Self-reflection can really help you to grow and mature–but at the same time, I’m never more judgemental of anybody than I am of myself.

“What he has in addition is pure empathy and projection,” Dr. Bloom said. “He can assume your point of view, or mine – and maybe some other points of view that scare and sicken him. It’s an uncomfortable gift, Jack. Perception’s a tool that’s pointed on both ends.”

-Thomas Harris, Red Dragon

So, we’re all different, right? Different, yet the same. As far as the vast majority of people goes, we all enjoy food, television, music, pointless materialist things, and the latest gossip; most of us have morning and nighttime rituals, heads filled with dreams, and a graveyard of goals never reached.

But then there’s how we’re all different. It seems that everyone feels like they stand out at least to a degree–so I’m sure a lot of you reading will understand how I feel when I say I feel different than different. I feel like the outcast of outcasts. The misfit of misfits. The lone man on the moon, light years away in a black space, looking down at the Earth. Alone.

Why am I stuck feeling such a way? Words can’t explain.

I don’t drink. I don’t smoke anything. I’ve never been to a strip club or sat at a bar. Some may say I’m missing out on life, but I just know that that life isn’t for me. My three uncles died from alcoholism and I was raised by a single loving mother, so I only know to treat women with respect.

You know, there’s a lot to say, so please, allow me to further express myself with this poem:

That Man on the Moon

Ever since

I was ten inches

I have been

different

As a kid

I thought, This skin

it just isn’t

meant to fit

Till I took

a breath in

and let this difference

settle in

Nothing I do

is quite like them

Maybe that’s why

I’m frightening

Maybe that’s why

I’m on the outside looking in

trying to understand

how to move like them

Maybe I can’t

keep a relationship

because I treat women

with respect

A silent phone

A quiet home

I guess you could say I

like being alone

Always stood out

Outside the crowd

A quiet mouth

A mind so loud

I’ve always died to

be like you

to move like you do

and be someone new

But I must not

have had a clue

because I am one

in a few

Plus they can’t

get my view

coz I am the man

upon the moon

Thanks for reading, fellow travelers of outer space! Don’t be afraid to embrace who you are. You’re different for a reason. Do something with it.

Sincerely,

Jordan Antonacci

Twitter: @misterhushhush

Advertisements

2:30 AM

[image error]

2:30 in the morning

I was awoken by a knocking

You’d come back like a haunting

A dressed up nightmare walking

You said that you wanted

to try again

Really you wanted

to lie again

Maybe you wanted

to watch me die again

I’m haunted as I say

goodbye to my best friend

For the past month

it’s been on and off

coz you never seem to know

what you want

Do you want me?

Do you want him?

How could I let myself be

in this situation again?

I gave you all

You gave me none

You’d only call

when I’d say “We’re done.”

Now this relationship

it isn’t much fun

But I’d still give everything

to go back to the way it was

Just me and you

Our favorite song, ‘Blue’

Entangled in the bed

Early morning conversations

You’d make breakfast

As I’d write

It was supposed to be like that

Baby, for life

What was it

I did wrong?

Offer a love

that was too strong?

Offer to take you in

and play your games again?

How do we fix it

by doing the same things again?

“I can’t say No. Though the lights are on, there’s nobody home.

Swore I’d never lose control.

Then I fell in love with a heart that beats so slow.”

-Troye Sivan, Blue

Mended heart with a

tale to tell

Honestly, I’m just

pissed at myself

coz yet again I

slipped and fell

Fell for the same shit,

but oh well

Now alone I stand

without any help

Truthfully I am

doing well

I’ve been here before

This exact cell

This exact pain

This same brand of hell

Again we say

our farewells

I’m moving to a new place

You don’t know where

Life, it will keep

moving ahead

“We” will always be

a memory in my head

But don’t come back to me

I’m done with the games

I just want to be happy

Please for fuck sake

Still I wish

you would’ve tried

coz now I say goodbye

Goodbye Babygirl, for the last time

“All your lights are red, but I’m green to go.”

 

Anyone going through a break-up, know that’s it’s never wrong to try again. Though it’s not wrong to try again, it’s also not wrong to walk away. You can only try so many times. You can only keep going in circles for so long. If you’re giving it your all and it’s still not working, then maybe it’s just not meant to be. Accept that notion when it presents itself. You can’t force something that doesn’t belong. “If it’s meant to be, it’ll be.”

Thanks for reading, everyone.

-Jordan Antonacci

Twitter: @misterhushhush

My Family, My Home

[image error]

There’s only one place

where I’m able to feel

Only one place

where I’m not wooden, but real

This is a place

I race to go

This place’s name

is home

I miss waking up

way before the sun

I’d sit downstairs and wait

for my mother’s love

She’d make breakfast

Enough for my brothers

There’s never been a love

quite like my mother’s

California weather

doesn’t get much better

A breeze in the palm trees

A Frisbee on the beach

Up and down suburban streets

My brother and I ride

Eager to look and see

The pretty girls that wave hi

At the day’s end

the true joy begins

When we’re all inside to stay

huddled around the fireplace

Comedy shows on the television

Dinner in the kitchen

These are the things that lately

I’ve been missing

even more as I grow older

I find myself

reminiscing

Wishing

My family, my home

are everything to me.

Hi everyone! I hope you’re enjoying my posts. If this is your first time stopping by the blog, then I hope you’ll scroll through my other posts and give a few a read. Also, I’ve updated my ABOUT ME PAGE so go ahead and check that out if you’d like to get to know me better.

Thanks for reading!

-Jordan Antonacci

Twitter: @misterhushhush

 

 

 

I’m Not A Good Person

I’m not a good person. If you think I am, then you’re wrong. What you see is what I want you to see. The shy, soft-spoken, mild-mannered young man you think you know could blow away in the wind. He’s a facade. Superficial. Empty. There’s someone else behind that mask; a side to me I don’t want you to see.

[image error]

What is good, and what is bad? What is it we do which allows us to be labeled with such characteristics? If a person does a bad thing, does that make him a bad person? A person who made a mistake? A person who was going through a rough time? Or was that simply his true side seeping through and into the light–a side which people choose to remain blind to even as they witness it? Last but not least, is anyone all good? Is anyone all bad?

I’m not a good person. Obviously, you all don’t know me. If you’ve read enough of my blog, then you may know a part of me…but you don’t really know me. I’m not sure anyone does; not even those closest to me. However, if you read my posts, then chances are you know me better than most of the people I’ve actually met.

There’s just a side to me that I’m constantly, consciously having to keep in check. I keep it hidden, under lock and key. Although, under certain circumstances, this part of me may bleed through like a scab that hasn’t fully healed. Every so often, the lock will break…

So, by now, most of you are probably wondering what the fuck this “side” to me is. What–are you a werewolf? Are there body parts in your freezer? Even worse–do you actually like the television show, Vampire Diaries?

Eh, not quite. Definitely not the last one. You see, this side to me–I can’t directly speak on it. It’s similar to Beatle Juice: say his name too many times and it’ll be bound to appear. But I will do what I can to paint you a picture.

“I’m not sure what I am. I just know there’s something dark inside me. I hide it. But it’s there. Always. And when he’s driving, I feel alive. Half-sick with the thrill of complete wrongness. I don’t fight him. I don’t want to. He’s all I’ve got.”

-Dexter Morgan

This side to me…

It’s like some insatiable hunger–a thirst I can’t ever quench.

It’s a weakness that craves strength. An insecurity that howls with dominance.

It’s a thief that steals me from the rest–all my family and friends.

It’s a killer that stomps out my own life–like some forced suicide. It’s left me empty, hollow inside. No feelings left to care, no tears left to shed.

Like a marionette, it controls me. It’s hates me but can’t let go of me; loves me but can’t show me. I hate it. But I also love it; because of that, I can’t let go of it. No matter how much it takes, no matter how lonely it leaves me, some twisted part of me will always come back to it. Because, in a way, it’s all I have.

I’m not a good person. If you think I am, then you’re wrong. What you see is what I want you to see. The shy, soft-spoken, mild-mannered young man you think you know could blow away in the wind. He’s a facade. Superficial. Empty. There’s someone else behind that mask; a side to me I don’t want you to see. But then again… maybe that’s how it is for all of us.

How about you?

Thanks for reading!

-Jordan Antonacci

Twitter: @misterhushhush

Advertisements

I’m Not A Good Person

I’m not a good person. If you think I am, then you’re wrong. What you see is what I want you to see. The shy, soft-spoken, mild-mannered young man you think you know could blow away in the wind. He’s a facade. Superficial. Empty. There’s someone else behind that mask; a side to me I don’t want you to see.

[image error]

What is good, and what is bad? What is it we do which allows us to be labeled with such characteristics? If a person does a bad thing, does that make him a bad person? A person who made a mistake? A person who was going through a rough time? Or was that simply his true side seeping through and into the light–a side which people choose to remain blind to even as they witness it? Last but not least, is anyone all good? Is anyone all bad?

I’m not a good person. Obviously, you all don’t know me. If you’ve read enough of my blog, then you may know a part of me…but you don’t really know me. I’m not sure anyone does; not even those closest to me. However, if you read my posts, then chances are you know me better than most of the people I’ve actually met.

There’s just a side to me that I’m constantly, consciously having to keep in check. I keep it hidden, under lock and key. Although, under certain circumstances, this part of me may bleed through like a scab that hasn’t fully healed. Every so often, the lock will break…

So, by now, most of you are probably wondering what the fuck this “side” to me is. What–are you a werewolf? Are there body parts in your freezer? Even worse–do you actually like the television show, Vampire Diaries?

Eh, not quite. Definitely not the last one. You see, this side to me–I can’t directly speak on it. It’s similar to Beatle Juice: say his name too many times and it’ll be bound to appear. But I will do what I can to paint you a picture.

“I’m not sure what I am. I just know there’s something dark inside me. I hide it. But it’s there. Always. And when he’s driving, I feel alive. Half-sick with the thrill of complete wrongness. I don’t fight him. I don’t want to. He’s all I’ve got.”

-Dexter Morgan

This side to me…

It’s like some insatiable hunger–a thirst I can’t ever quench.

It’s a weakness that craves strength. An insecurity that howls with dominance.

It’s a thief that steals me from the rest–all my family and friends.

It’s a killer that stomps out my own life–like some forced suicide. It’s left me empty, hollow inside. No feelings left to care, no tears left to shed.

Like a marionette, it controls me. It’s hates me but can’t let go of me; loves me but can’t show me. I hate it. But I also love it; because of that, I can’t let go of it. No matter how much it takes, no matter how lonely it leaves me, some twisted part of me will always come back to it. Because, in a way, it’s all I have.

I’m not a good person. If you think I am, then you’re wrong. What you see is what I want you to see. The shy, soft-spoken, mild-mannered young man you think you know could blow away in the wind. He’s a facade. Superficial. Empty. There’s someone else behind that mask; a side to me I don’t want you to see. But then again… maybe that’s how it is for all of us.

How about you?

Thanks for reading!

-Jordan Antonacci

Twitter: @misterhushhush

Bad Things

We were alone. Finally. Just me and her.

But it seemed as everything got quiet, my mind got so loud. My eyes kept getting pulled into her. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop my sight from running up and down her–all her curves, her skin, her hair. I couldn’t stop the urge to want to touch her; see how she felt against me.

“Am I out of my head? Am I out of my mind? If you only knew the bad things I like. Don’t think that I can explain it. What can I say, it’s complicated.”

-Camila Cabello, Bad Things

She looked to me. Our eyes locked and my breath held. Felt like she could hear my thoughts, they were so loud. She smiled and I tried to smile back. A conversation began, but all I could think about were her parted lips, the way she kept playing with her hair, and how badly I just wanted to touch her. The way she kept looking at me made me think she had the same thoughts. The conversation stopped but our eyes never parted. Her eyes slipped to my lips. Some tension in the air. Suffocating. A heat rose inside as my pulse began to race. Between us was a pull. Strong. She got close; I got closer. It was quick. Dangerous. The scent of her wrapped itself around me like a leash and pulled me in.

Our lips met like two worlds colliding. Such thirst couldn’t be controlled. Such lust couldn’t be tamed. We were at the mercy of it, and I was at the mercy of her.

My hand slid from her neck to her chest then down to her waist. I pulled her shirt off and she pulled off mine. She kissed my neck. Bit. Licked. She tugged at my belt like she couldn’t breathe with it on. I shoved her back onto the bed and pulled off her pants. Her breathing climbed as I moved up her body with my tongue. With my lips and teeth. Everywhere I went, all the places I touched; places I wasn’t supposed to be. How could something so wrong feel so right?

Her wrists tied overhead. A fold over her eyes.

[image error]

“No matter what you say, no matter what you do, I only want to do bad things to you. So good that you can’t explain it. What can I say, it’s complicated.”

Long, slow. Faster. Harder. Sweating in the tousled sheets, we rocked the bed till it squeaked. Till it knocked against the wall. Till my heart raced and her moans threatened to hit screams. Untying her was like releasing a starved animal. She flipped me over and climbed on top. Her hips thrust as she rode, holding me down at my wrists and grinding her body against mine. From the bed, we went to the floor, against the wall, to the dresser. We went from the couch to the kitchen and to the desk. Surface to surface, room to room…

Her nails into my back. Her lips against mine. A hunger so bad, we stayed up all night.

When They Don’t Understand

You don’t understand what’s going on inside of my head, and I don’t know what’s going on inside of yours. You don’t get why I do what I do, and I don’t understand why you are the way you are. You and I–we’re two entirely different people; on the same Earth but still in completely different worlds.

There’s no one like me. There’s no one like you. So, how can anyone ever understand?

[image error]

When they don’t understand…

My dreams, hopes and desires. Why I’m willing to spend countless hours in the early mornings and late nights just trying to make these dreams come to life as I write.

Why I over analyze and overthink every little thing and every single word you speak. Why stupid shit stays with me for weeks and weighs on me till I get weak and feel I’m about to breakdown to my knees.

Why I can’t seem to trust. They tell me I have to let people in, but I can’t seem to open up. On top of it, my memory is scarred with grudges I know I can never let go of. And they just keep coming. Believe me, I hate it more than you do.

Why one second I seem to be in the clouds, and the next I’m in the ground. Six feet down. Why my highs and lows flip like a light switch I can’t seem to control. I try to love myself but this flaw makes it a living hell. Maybe I need help.

Why I feel like disappearing without a word or trace. Without a goodbye, I’d runaway. Not say a single thing. I’d leave these four walls, this ball and chain, my past life up till this second…and I’d start again. Fresh. A new dawn, a new day, a new path and endless new ways.

My OCD needs and anxieties. The uncontrollable, impulsive hunger I need to feed. The way I scrub and organize because everything needs to stay neat and clean. Sometimes it drives me crazy, but when everything is in its place, I feel a little closer to being complete.

Why I’d rather be alone than in clubs; at home instead of out getting drunk and fucked up. Why I’d rather focus on my dream then simply going out and living in one.

Why I try so hard to make something work even when it stays broken. It’s just dangerous–like flooring the pedal of a faulty car down the freeway and trusting everything will stay together. But I’m falling apart, piece by piece.

Why I hold grudges. Actions speak louder than words. Say ‘sorry’ all you want, but I’ll never forget what you did. These travesties keep the walls of my mind forever stained in some maroon red, and I can’t seem to paint over it.

Why I reach beyond my grasp and want everything I can’t have. This dream, destiny, legacy… I want to build an empire and I’ve never wanted anything so bad. I won’t stop reaching till I die and fall flat. I won’t stop even if it drives me mad.

Why I feel like I lost a relationship I never had. Why I’m still so mad over what he did. The potential killed itself, and without closure, left. Not a word, not a text message. As I sit here by myself, I can’t help but dwell, wondering if I’ll grow to fall the way he fell.

You may never understand…and honestly, I’m not sure I will either.

 

Thanks for reading. To those that like and follow, thank you as well!

Reblog: Loving An Overthinker

Discovering Your Happiness

Hello loves

When you love someone who constantly overthinks, you are loving someone who’s mind plays tricks on them. You are loving someone who can’t help the way that they think. Who can’t help how much they think.

Someone who over thinks is someone who is always going to have questions. They are someone is always going to be processing one thing at a time, and then constantly be overwhelmed with what if’s and questions marks.

When you love someone who overthinks, you have to be confident in your relationship. And you have to be an over sharer.

You need to be one step ahead of them, never letting their head start to spin with self doubt and self hatred. You need to not just tell them that you are there for them, you need to show up and do it. You need to take action, instead of just putting…

View original post 405 more words