• About Heavy Hands Ink

Do You Believe?

Fulfillment is sort-of not real. It can’t be quantified, and it never seems to fully exist. Have you ever felt 100 percent fulfilled? I doubt it. I have never had that one moment where I bask in my own greatest because I know that there is nothing else in the world that needs to be done, because I have it all.

I have, however, come closer to earthly fulfillment than I ever have lately. Most of it stems from the belief that people have shown they have in me.

When I was younger, and not even that much younger than I am now, I always wanted to impress my dad. Every boy wants to from the time they are little. I got to spend a lot of time with my dad when I was younger. I was lucky enough to not only live in a stable home, but to have a dad who spent as much time with his children as possible. Being around him that much made him my hero. I always respected him. There were a few times when I would get angry at him, but recently, I have come to see that every lesson he ever taught me was both necessary and of great purpose.

My dad’s favorite sport: basketball. The best basketball player in our family, though, was not me. It was my middle sister, Allie. I was the youngest. Every youngest child dies for constant recognition and acceptance. I was incredibly jealous of my sister. She was an all-conference athlete in three different sports, and I was a middle of the pack athlete. I was never in the best cardiovascular shape, either. I stopped playing basketball to focus on Track and Field, where as a sophomore, I got to throw discus in a few varsity meets. However, I never felt that I got the same recognition or respect that Allie did.

I was quite delusional, looking back on it. Allie did not get any other perks. My dad probably worked with me on my skills as much as he did with Allie, if not more. The attention Allie got was from outsiders. However, in my youngest-child complex, it was strictly an issue of me not being liked because I couldn’t hit a three like my sister could.

I came to realize that my dad did respect me the way he did Allie when I started to send out my poems for publication. He reads every single poem that gets published and watches the uploads I put on youtube. He attended my reading in Oak Park. He compliments and critiques my work. Whenever I talk to my dad about my writing, he listens; he listens the way he taught me to listen. I know that he respects me. When my work got published, it was fulfilling to see his support.

Now, here come the finger pointers and the critics yelling, “HE IZ NOT A MEMBURR OF DA LITERAIRRY COMYOUNIDY!!!” First of all, my dad reads more than anyone I know, and secondly, I have also received a great deal of support within the literary community.

Kevin Heaton caught my eye when he first submitted to HHI. You can find him at http://kevinheatonpoetry.webstarts.com/index.html. He is the author of “Postcards of Faith” and the anthology “Gastropoda.”  When he continued to submit, he fully garnered my attention, especially with his piece, “To Hell With It.” I decided while working in the ongoing process of compiling HHI Volume One that I would take my five favorite previously published pieces from HHI and put them in the first issue of the magazine. “To Hell With It” is one of them. When I e-mailed Kevin to tell him about this, he accepted my offer, and also offered these kind words:

“My wife and I were discussing you the other night. You are a very rare individual for one so young. I believe that you represent the hope for our countries future that I, as an old man, had considered extinct. You see the sickness that our demoralized culture has become and have the youth and determination to remedy it. This is why Heavy Hands Ink will be noted as a ground breaking key in the cultural shift to salvage our species, should it seize this last chance opportunity. ”

Kevin Heaton believes. Do you?

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One Response

  1. I have faith in you to create and present something innovative, I just hope it continues to be well-received but on a more…epic, scale. We’re a buncha sick puppies, Maxwell, real sickos. Get people to read, hope it sticks.

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