A Gerard Way Fanfiction For Fran - Part One
A Gerard Way Fanfiction For Fran - Part One
Music isn’t about music. It’s about life. So if you have no life out side of your band how can you possibly convey… discuss, even?
There’s always more to life than anyone could guess, than anyone can write about, and yet I try. I try to pour twenty nine years of shit into a four minute song. And I have to say, sometimes it works. Sometimes it works better than I could ever believe.
Of course, it’s always over exaggerated. I’m Italian, but not part of the mafia. I come from NJ, but I’ve never held a gun.
I haven’t been in prison aside from some drunk and disorderly crap, and even then I can’t remember it.
Hell, I could have done push ups in a skirt for all I know.
My life wasn’t good. It wasn’t interesting and it wasn’t good.
I’ve been drunk, drugged and in every state of semi consciousness there is in this world. I’ve had my problems and they’ve hurt. They’ve seemed impossible. They’ve been bigger than me, bigger than anything. I fought my background, my past, my present, my future. I fought current addictions and future addictions. I never stopped fighting, I never stopped kicking the crap out of any obstacle that dared to cross my path.
And yet now they all seem so insignificant.
Even though I don‘t write about the music, it’s still a bigger part of my life than anything else. It’s my therapy. My release. If I hadn’t have been able to write about my world I would probably be in an asylum right now.
It has always been the most natural thing to me. I had to learn to draw; I had to practice singing. I even had to study being a front man after throwing my guts up after my first sober night on the stage.
But the writing has always been there. The words have always flowed from my mouth, from my pen, from my heart. Even though I haven’t always been able to say what I want to say, I’ve always been able to write what I want to write.
It’s part of me.
And now that part of me seems to have been amputated without my knowledge.
Now that’s just damn rude.
I sit here with a pen in my hand, staring hopelessly at the blank piece of paper. I’ve never done this before. I’ve always just received the inspiration and snatched someone’s arm or the nearest bit of spare wall and scribbled it down in whatever I could find; from crayons to lipstick.
But I haven’t been able to do that in six months, and you wouldn’t believe the pain it brings me.
Think of a permanent case of mental and emotional blue balls.
But there’s nothing. There’s no point writing about my worries, since the worry fading out all others is my writer’s block.
And my lack of perfect timing punched a hole right through this song.
Music isn’t about music. It’s about life. So if you have no life out side of your band how can you possibly convey… discuss, even?
There’s always more to life than anyone could guess, than anyone can write about, and yet I try. I try to pour twenty nine years of shit into a four minute song. And I have to say, sometimes it works. Sometimes it works better than I could ever believe.
Of course, it’s always over exaggerated. I’m Italian, but not part of the mafia. I come from NJ, but I’ve never held a gun.
I haven’t been in prison aside from some drunk and disorderly crap, and even then I can’t remember it.
Hell, I could have done push ups in a skirt for all I know.
My life wasn’t good. It wasn’t interesting and it wasn’t good.
I’ve been drunk, drugged and in every state of semi consciousness there is in this world. I’ve had my problems and they’ve hurt. They’ve seemed impossible. They’ve been bigger than me, bigger than anything. I fought my background, my past, my present, my future. I fought current addictions and future addictions. I never stopped fighting, I never stopped kicking the crap out of any obstacle that dared to cross my path.
And yet now they all seem so insignificant.
Even though I don‘t write about the music, it’s still a bigger part of my life than anything else. It’s my therapy. My release. If I hadn’t have been able to write about my world I would probably be in an asylum right now.
It has always been the most natural thing to me. I had to learn to draw; I had to practice singing. I even had to study being a front man after throwing my guts up after my first sober night on the stage.
But the writing has always been there. The words have always flowed from my mouth, from my pen, from my heart. Even though I haven’t always been able to say what I want to say, I’ve always been able to write what I want to write.
It’s part of me.
And now that part of me seems to have been amputated without my knowledge.
Now that’s just damn rude.
I sit here with a pen in my hand, staring hopelessly at the blank piece of paper. I’ve never done this before. I’ve always just received the inspiration and snatched someone’s arm or the nearest bit of spare wall and scribbled it down in whatever I could find; from crayons to lipstick.
But I haven’t been able to do that in six months, and you wouldn’t believe the pain it brings me.
Think of a permanent case of mental and emotional blue balls.
But there’s nothing. There’s no point writing about my worries, since the worry fading out all others is my writer’s block.
And my lack of perfect timing punched a hole right through this song.