cdbennett-blog

[cdbennett-blog]

"The tears we shed out of love scar us deeper than any mortal wound."

#writing

[cdbennett-blog]

I honestly forgot I even had a tumblr. :/

[cdbennett-blog]

This Mother's Day, treat yourself to HORROR. SLICE by C.D. Bennett - FREE DOWNLOAD - One day only! http://www.amazon.com/Slice-ebook/dp/B00CK24GB0

[cdbennett-blog]

SLICE by C.D. Bennett First review on Kindle! 5 stars! "'Slice' is heart-wrenching, riveting, and brilliant. I loved it." http://www.amazon.com/Slice-ebook/dp/B00CK24GB0

[cdbennett-blog]

Any fool can be happy. It takes a man with real heart to make beauty out of the stuff that makes us weep.

Clive Barker, Days of Magic, Nights of War

[cdbennett-blog]

Tumblr is like that really insightful blog you pour your heart and soul into that no one ever bothers to read.

[cdbennett-blog]

Bleeding Out

Horror should haunt you, anger you, terrify you, disgust you. Horror should leave you changed from the first moment it touches you, and leave you begging for more. - C.D. Bennett

[cdbennett-blog]

"What you leave behind is just as poignant as what lies ahead. Memories fade, miles grow long, but as my mother once told me, 'Wherever you go, there you are.'"

— C.D. Bennett

[cdbennett-blog]

Kindred

As a writer it's always comforting to be in the company of like-minded souls. It's easy to feel alone, even abandoned, while taking on a journey like the one we all share in this craft. Growing up in a disjointed family the moments were rare when I truly felt a part of the whole. I spent a lot of time and a lot of years looking inward, and when I did look out into the world I always felt like more of an observer than a participant. There are many out there who will never know that kind of... disassociation; but those treasured, kindred few certainly understand. It wasn't until much later in life that I finally found myself in the company of the kind of souls I'd been searching for all my life. Though some of those encounters were fleeting, even achingly abrupt, each one left their mark... and changed me forever. A few of those are still with me today, some have passed on, and still others are just beginning to shape their influence on my life. You all know who you are, and though you may not know each other, to all of you... my thanks. — C.D. Bennett

[cdbennett-blog]

What Happened to Horror?

I'm sorry but I'm old school. I don't think comedy belongs in horror. I know some people say it "lightens the mood" but that's not what horror's about. Just bugs me. Can vampires and werewolves and demons and all that just get back to killing people already? LOL

[cdbennett-blog]

At night, when the objective world has slunk back into its cavern and left dreamers to their own, there come inspirations and capabilities impossible at any less magical and quiet hour. No one knows whether or not he is a writer unless he has tried writing at night.

H.P. Lovecraft

[cdbennett-blog]

I was just reminded that I've been neglecting my Tumblr. I'll try to fix that.

[cdbennett-blog]

We’re too much ourselves. Afraid of letting go of what we are, in case we are nothing, and holding on so tight, we lose everything else.

Clive Barker, Imajica

[cdbennett-blog]

Fading

There was a time I would have given you anything. My heart. My soul. My life. You were my muse, and our own story was merely beginning. There was nothing, no earthly desire that could have swayed me from your side… and you knew it. You still know it. Yet you walked away. You expected me to wait around for your "someday," to stand by and watch while you loved someone else, however hollow your efforts seemed. And for a time, that's just what I did. I waited, loved you from a distance, and suffered in silence. Before I knew it, weeks turned to months, and months to years. I left that road a long time ago, and my memory of you now is little more than a shadow upon the wall. It's times like this when I look upon that shadow and realize that our story ended long ago, and I see things now with open eyes. All I was, was never enough. All I am today, you'll never know.

[cdbennett-blog]

Finding the Profound in the Profane

I am not a devil, but certainly no angel. I've never believed that a writer should censor themselves for the sake of a kinder review or the hope of a fatter paycheck. Writing, good writing, is an art... and sometimes art is dirty. You have to be willing to get your hands bloody, and not be afraid to sweat. I've recently begun a new novel, and with it I'm embarking on a road that I'm sure will surprise more than a few of those who know me. But it's something I have to do. Something I must do. There will be blood on the page and tears will be shed. It's a delicate dance to skirt the line between the profound and the profane, but in the end I hope my readers will enjoy the ride. The writing world is full of babbling hacks choking on the same tired clichés and uninspired bullshit. The sad truth is more than a few of those make their way into the bestseller list year after year. It's easy to blame the consumer for their lack of taste but in truth it's our own damn fault for leading them to believe there's nothing else to look forward to. Every once in a great while a story or film comes along to buck the system of its mediocrity and gives me hope that somewhere out there the winds are changing, and perhaps the written word that I love still has a breath of life left in it. Sadly, those days seem farther and farther apart these last few years. For those of us who have the writing bug, we really have only one option. Write. Every day. Hone your prose into a lyrical weapon, and if the audience wants blood, give it to them. We all fall victim to lazy nights and dreary days; I'm certainly not immune. But it's important that we never lose sight of what we're aiming at... And strike for the heart. — C.D. Bennett

[cdbennett-blog]

Thorns

Though the heart may sow the seeds it is sorrow that tills the soil. If ever a rose could flourish there if ever its thorns find its soul. — C.D. Bennett

[cdbennett-blog]

You are the music while the music lasts.

T. S. Eliot