Post by Logan on May 27, 2009 17:11:24 GMT -5
"...." - Matthew Hendrick of THE Review
Matthew Hendrick, infamously known as 'Mister Honest', a credible passion was brought to the table whenever Matthew turned in his two cents, his work, his life, his review. If something deserved a harsh tone, you got it from Hendrick, if everyone witnessed an unexplainable magic he'd let you know why. Matthew Hendrick was the neutral man to readers. Matthew Hendrick. Wrestling's true journalist.
Keeping things old fashioned wasn't his nature, he just preferred the sound of a 19th century type writer. The only sound an angel could make were when his finger tips pounded away on a machine passed down from his grandfather. It wasn't impossible to keep one of these writing tools in good condition, it was tedious at times, searching the depths of hell on the internet for a part to the outdated machine wasn't one of the fine luxuries of owning an 19th century antique. However, this operable machine brought his dream to life and the little annoyances of owning one seemed exactly that, little. Notebooks (laptops) or any digital tool an inspiring writer would use didn't fit into the world of Matthew. The smell of the oiled slider, the rich ink that brought his words to life all give him the push to how far his creativity could stretch. Without his dear type writer, Matthew Hendrick wasn't Matthew Hendrick.
Matthew Hendrick: Creeping..
Fingers bouncing off the keys that literally followed with a punching, a smashing of letters being imprinted into thick vanilla paper.
Matthew Hendrick: Death..
Creeping Death. The center stage and spot light of Matthew's afternoon. Creeping Death. The header on his review. This wasn't going to come easy, no, he didn't begin pounding away on the delicate antique after snarling on Jack of Blade's antics of playground sandboxes and syringes. Creeping Death gave the writers hindsight no emotion, nothing positive, nothing even negative to dive into.
Matthew Hendrick, infamously known as 'Mister Honest', a credible passion was brought to the table whenever Matthew turned in his two cents, his work, his life, his review. If something deserved a harsh tone, you got it from Hendrick, if everyone witnessed an unexplainable magic he'd let you know why. Matthew Hendrick was the neutral man to readers. Matthew Hendrick. Wrestling's true journalist.
Keeping things old fashioned wasn't his nature, he just preferred the sound of a 19th century type writer. The only sound an angel could make were when his finger tips pounded away on a machine passed down from his grandfather. It wasn't impossible to keep one of these writing tools in good condition, it was tedious at times, searching the depths of hell on the internet for a part to the outdated machine wasn't one of the fine luxuries of owning an 19th century antique. However, this operable machine brought his dream to life and the little annoyances of owning one seemed exactly that, little. Notebooks (laptops) or any digital tool an inspiring writer would use didn't fit into the world of Matthew. The smell of the oiled slider, the rich ink that brought his words to life all give him the push to how far his creativity could stretch. Without his dear type writer, Matthew Hendrick wasn't Matthew Hendrick.
Matthew Hendrick: Creeping..
Fingers bouncing off the keys that literally followed with a punching, a smashing of letters being imprinted into thick vanilla paper.
Matthew Hendrick: Death..
Creeping Death. The center stage and spot light of Matthew's afternoon. Creeping Death. The header on his review. This wasn't going to come easy, no, he didn't begin pounding away on the delicate antique after snarling on Jack of Blade's antics of playground sandboxes and syringes. Creeping Death gave the writers hindsight no emotion, nothing positive, nothing even negative to dive into.
