Village Fate welcomes a special guest-- a genuine internet writer who has agreed to share his internet writing secrets with the unwashed masses. Huzzah!
The internet is as full of writers as it is pedophiles, with each of them contributing equally to the sum total of human misery with their affronts against human decency and also their pedophilia. So, how to stand out from all the other writers? It is said that the first step towards wisdom is to click on a Facebook post promoting the blog of an asshole. You have done that. Prepare for the enlightenment, straight up all ins.
Firstly, I should explain to you that all those other posts you read were fucking bullshit. Every single one of them. Put them from your mind. Banish them to the deepest pit of your subconscious, there to keep company with The Incident and The Other Incident. No, The Other One. Done? Good.
This is the only writer blog post you need ever read, as I will impart to you the genuine secrets of becoming a real god damned writer.
Anybody who says they have life experience is a bastard. Nobody says that. And if youâre the sort of person who travels or does things with the express purpose of garnering life experience then youâre an insufferable prick badger. A single-cell organism trapped on the Popeâs bell-end has life experience. Stop being so uppity. Leave life to those living it. Youâre a writer, and itâs your job to stare bitterly out of the window, seeing the laughter and smiles of the people you could have been if you werenât so irrevocably damaged. Then you write a fucking book.
Never trust a writer who doesnât look like a cross between a monkey and a potato. If you donât have a prominent gut to lean on over the long hours, and the twisted claws of a dead mole where your hands should be, then youâre not a writer, youâre just a twat who thinks words are funny. Theyâre not. None of them. Now write a fucking book.
Routine is everything, and if you start your day with a solemn promise to a deity whose name is best left unspoken, youâll be in the correct frame of mind to snap the neck of a beloved neighbourhood pet, stealing its essence and solidifying your reputation as a man/woman not to be fucked with. In the ensuing solitude, granted by mad darkness and neighbours who moved away long, long ago, you may write your fucking book.
Jesus, youâre insufferable. You really are. Not happy just to write your fucking book, huh? Gotta tell us all about it, like a cheerleader with her first venereal disease. Oh, youâre tiresome. So fucking tiresome. You know what? Fuck off. Go on, fuck off. Tosser.
If youâve followed these steps correctly, you should by now be making a modest income, not enough for an apartment in Manhattan, but definitely enough to subsidise a cottage on a small farm in in one of the fly-over states. You wonât have a butler, per se, but one of your groupies will be broken enough inside to act as an unpaid maid and confidant, asking nothing in return but that you occasionally tell her that everythingâs going to be alright. Shhh. Itâs gonna be alright, Charlene. Now get out while I write my fucking book.
Charlene left you years ago. For reasons you canât understand you were able to heal her, but not yourself. Sheâs living in Chicago with a Green Peace photographer and a Lithuanian. You think about her sometimes, in between your fucking book writing. Now, fingers worn to troll-like stubs, spine as twisted as your pickled intestines, you take a stroll into town, walking past the bars where the people know you as âthat writer guyâ. You keep walking until you reach the tracks, and then you lie down. Even as you hear the whistle of the 7:15 you realise youâre narrating your own suicide in your mind and the thought makes you weep. You briefly reflect that when you die, the only thing left of you will be an elaborate series of soft-core centaur pornography aimed at 12-year olds.
