#withmydick

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.

Step 1: Life Experience

Anybody who says they have life experience is a bastard. Nobody says that. And if you’re the sort of person who travels or does things with the express purpose of garnering life experience then you’re an insufferable prick badger. A single-cell organism trapped on the Pope’s bell-end has life experience. Stop being so uppity. Leave life to those living it. You’re a writer, and it’s your job to stare bitterly out of the window, seeing the laughter and smiles of the people you could have been if you weren’t so irrevocably damaged. Then you write a fucking book.

Step 2: Posture

Never trust a writer who doesn’t look like a cross between a monkey and a potato. If you don’t 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 you’re not a writer, you’re just a twat who thinks words are funny. They’re not. None of them. Now write a fucking book.

Step 3: Ritual

Routine is everything, and if you start your day with a solemn promise to a deity whose name is best left unspoken, you’ll 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.

Step 4: Promotion

Jesus, you’re 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, you’re tiresome. So fucking tiresome. You know what? Fuck off. Go on, fuck off. Tosser.

Step 5: Profit

If you’ve 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 won’t 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 everything’s going to be alright. Shhh. It’s gonna be alright, Charlene. Now get out while I write my fucking book.

Step 6: Death

Charlene left you years ago. For reasons you can’t understand you were able to heal her, but not yourself. She’s 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 “that writer guy”. 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 you’re 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.