Because Writing About Writing is What Writers Do

Somehow, it’s reached a point these days where you aren’t really considered a writer unless you’re writing about writing. I can’t really say whether that’s good or bad. Perhaps because I don’t know, but more likely because I avoid reading most of them. One might deem this tutorial littering of the internet a consequence of self-publication, in that everyone who wants to see their book in print (or on a Kindle or whatnot), can then take to their respective blog (or blob, if you’re my mother, bless her heart) and detail all the ways in which you can achieve whatever level of success they deem they have attained.

Again, good or bad, I don’t know. This is just a truth we all have to accept. Maybe there’s useful information out there that can help you. Maybe there isn’t. No idea. I mean, I can’t tell you what the Onion is writing about today because I haven’t read it. I know it’s funny though. I can guarantee that. And it’s there. There is far better than not.  Just like writing a book. It will always be better to you if it is there than if it is not.

There you go. Hallelujah, praise Timmy Christ, and may the force be with you. My writing lesson of the day. If you don’t write a book, you don’t have a book you have written. Genius. I have now joined the ranks of pseudo-professional writers who have blogged about writing. I am nearly complete as a human being. I’m one drunken tour of Scotland’s Pub of the Day Club away from ascension.

So, what do you do? How do you decide whether the advice you’re getting is advice you should be taking? Look, the truth is–the thing you need to know before taking this whole writing thing to the next level–there’s no such thing as a simplification of writing that any one person can offer. As with life, the process of learning about writing is an extensive and exhaustive process. One blog, one book, cannot cover what you need to know. Yet here you are, all engrossed in my words, or perhaps just hiking your way across the internet one click at a time, so allow me to illustrate my point in as simplified a way as I can so you only have to read one blog about it. Then you’ll know everything you need to know about writing. Ready?

Writing is hard.

Boom. You’re welcome.

Ok, so maybe that was too concise. But the truth remains. Are there varying levels of talent in which writing becomes less hard? Absolutely. Tom Robbins forged a career out of his brilliance, tapping one mind after another with a skilled hand that is not so much stratospheric as it is alien. Yet, he wrote every manuscript by hand, working on each individual sentence until it was exactly what it needed it to be. He didn’t use word counts. He just let the work tell him when he was done. Which is not “as easy as that.” That’s fucking hard. That insane-level genius. Sure, it comes easier to him than it does to most everyone else, but his easy isn’t easy for him. It’s grueling.

Writing will kick you to hell and back, then wait for you to stand so it can kick you around some more. It’s a giant sponge sucking all your time and energy, then squeezing it down the drain while letting you know it’ll be right back k thanks. It’s something that requires you to spend more time in a world that doesn’t exist than the one you’re supposed to be living in. It offers you an array of friends you can’t live without then scoffs at your genie-in-a-bottle wish that they were real. It tempts you with hope, then insists you proceed with squashing all level of hope anywhere and everywhere for everyone you create, and, shamed though you are to admit it, love. It coaxes you with the allure of wealth, readership by the millions, adoration and praise, then leaves you with a waste basket of rejection and the realization that you have yet to leave the workforce, and probably won’t anytime soon. Writing is your mistress, and it won’t be satisfied with an occasional text. It wants all of you, but it doesn’t want you to stay over, and it sure as hell doesn’t want to be anything else. It wants you to succeed, it needs you to succeed, but it doesn’t stop badgering you just because you don’t.

And you know what? You love it. You revel in it. You slosh around in your misery like a pig in filth. You devour the entire helping of writing for the pure gluttony of it, then dive into the fridge with an appetite for more. Writing is that friend you can’t live without, and it both is and isn’t there with you at every waking moment. It is the single greatest love-hate, abusive relationship you will ever know, and it will inspire you to journey into the greatest, most wonderful, corners of your mind, where mystery and fantasy burn like wildfire, where romance and seduction beat like a heart, and where the entire universe is willing to bow to the supreme truth of 42.

This is what you want. This is why you believe you exist. This is why most of your earth-based friends and family have difficulty understanding you. This is why you creep people out in crowded spaces as you stare off into alternate realities, completely unaware of your surrounding, or of the uneasiness you leave those in your path. This … this insanely hard, difficult, maddening, bitch of an art, is why everything matters, and why every struggle is survived, every fear faced, every trace of indignity of self ignored.

If not, you can stop looking for advice on writing. You can stop worrying about improving. Just write. Do your blog thing, keep a journal, write whatever your kids or family seem to want to hear, but leave the advice on the shelf, leave the expectations be.

Because writing is hard.

And quitting it is impossible.

The White House is…covered in bees! Ahhhh!

 No introduction for you!

  • I’m not a Kellie Pickler fan.  Never have been.  But I have to admit it: she knows how to give hope to starving Idol hopefuls everywhere.
  • Ok Billy Bob.  We get it.  You’re Bad Santa.  Enough already.
  • One of my cats–Ray–has a problem.  He’s a klepto.  He’s one of the most skilled thiefs I have ever seen.  He will wander around the room, sneaking looks at your bowl of popcorn, and measuring (you can tell) the distance of the bowl to the floor, and perhaps, even, the ratio of popcorn kernals to humans and the time in between each handful.  He can, in one fluid motion, lift to the couch by two paws, snatch popcorn in his mouth, and roll forward and out of reach before you even know what hit you.  He’s good.  But he’s not this good.  This cat is a pro.
  • Note to the world.  Brittany does not like cigarette smoke.  If you want to see her shake her goods for you, for God’s sake, DON’T SMOKE!  Brittany mad!  Brittany smash! Brittany…walk away?  Well, alright then.
  • “I JUST WANT TO BE A DOPE PERSON WHICH STARTS WITH ME NOT ALWAYS TELLING PEOPLE HOW DOPE I THINK I AM.” ~Kayne West~ God Bless you Southpark, for taking on the biggest ego in the world and turning him into a gay fish.  Oh, and hey, do you like fishsticks?
  • So, I’m just curious.  How does one go about sending 20,000 text messages in a month anyway?  And how much would you have paid to bear witness to her father’s wrath.  Hell hath no fury like a father scorned by a $5,000 phone bill!
  • The PETA Shop Boys?  Seriously?  Did PETA really ask this?  What’s next?  Are the folks at the EPA going to ask Disney to change their park’s name to Epacenter?
  • Oh, no!  The White House!  It’s…covered in bees…ahhhhhhhhhhh!
  • 6 Million dollars?  Why no, Hillary, I don’t.  I’ve got .37 cents.  Will that earn me a chance to go to the American Idol finale?  ‘Cause, you know…that’s, like, totally awesome and stuff.
  • Everyday, I’m just a little more grateful that we have Hannah Montana.  I mean, gosh, what would Miley do without her?  She’d probably run amock and take mostly naked cell phone pictures of herself and “accidentally’ get them posted on the…oh, wait.  Yeah.
  • The Onion has once again given us guidance in raising our kids and teaching them about sex.  They’re so caring over there.
  • God bless the stupid.  They give us so much to talk about.

fail owned pwned pictures

I want to be on Survivor, but I won’t actually send anything in to try out.  I thought about it a number of times years ago, back in the single days when a good meal was pizza, mac n’ cheese and some type of soda.  It’s never been about the million dollars (yeah, right) though.  I’ve always wanted to see if I was up to the challenge (at least lying isn’t a problem, right?).  Granted, that’s what I am supposed to say.  Fact is, money aside, I am a great lover of social survival, and the lengths to which people will go to ensure that they are on top.  It amuses ME that people are genuinely shocked at the end of each season, when they find out that one of the finalist (if not all of them) got there by lying.  They are lambasted and belittled by finger waggling contestants who seem to be less upset at the survivors than they are that they didn’t lie enough to be one of them.  Now, I’m not going to profess that I would win, if I were on the show.  In fact, I probably wouldn’t.  Somewhere along the line, I feel quite certain that MY insistence on feeling guilt for any wrong I have committed would prevail and I would expose MYSELF as the liar I never am but would be for money hell yeah.  Still, I’m pretty sure I could hang in there long enough to be able to screw up some plans and make life a living hell for everyone who is left.  Then I could be voted off, placed on the jury, and spend a week or two planning how much waggling MY finger needed to be prepared for.  It would be dramatic, show-worthy, entertaining to the core.  Then I would go on the show circuit, be talked at by Regis and Kelly, and wind up hosting my own entertainment news program on some back water channel you never heard of.  Gosh, what a success I would be!

Here is MY Survivor mug shot:









Little Sylar, I call it.  I will slice open your head, absorb your Power, and win a million dollars.  Or, at the very least, keep you from winning what is rightfully MINE.  Television like you’ve never seen it.  Except on Monday nights on NBC.  But, let’s face it, another season of Heroes as it is, and you’re not going to watch that anymore anyway.  Unless it gets past it’s Lost-like wandering plot that never goes anywhere but backward, and forward, and backward.  So, that leaves plenty of room for MY villanous Survivoring.  And, I’m certain, that you will be entertained.  It is ME, after all.  Matter of fact, that should be my letter to the Survivor team.

Dear Survivor,

You want ME on your show.  It is ME, after all.


One million dollars later, you are all better off for having seen ME manipulate and finger waggle MY way to stardom.  You will discuss it for years, and television will never be the same.  I WILL BE AWESOME!

See, this is what happens when you don’t have a Hannah Montana to balance out your life.  Where’s my cell phone?  I wanna take a picture of ME.