I bought a book on synesthesia. I have decided this is the core of the next book, the one I am writing for myself. There will be no fantasy, no Sci Fi, no bullshit, and no punches pulled. Just the usual stuff – suspense, murder, romance, violence, sex. It is time I let out what’s inside of me. And what is inside is not always gentle, not tame, not for the faint of heart or soft of spirit. And if no one ever reads it, the next woman I love will, and that has always been enough for me.
Hell, I have written three books that only 1 person has read. That must be some kind of record.
At the very least, I don’t have to worry about “friends” starting the book, not finishing, and not having the courtesy of giving me feedback. I suppose instituting a wall of fuckyoutitude in advance is defensiveness, but who gives a shit. I’m still the guy they all call … all of them … when they are stressed, in trouble, sad, in need of help. And when it’s my turn to be in distress, I’m still the only one I can call. I’ve realized that I am my best friend, and the only person I need to please with my writing is me.
Sure as hell don’t need the money. What the fuck would I do with a $5,000 royalty check? Please.
I only wish I started writing back when people wrote books that weren’t shit. I wish I had editors who didn’t want to use my books to write the “great novel” they have no fucking talent to write. I wish I could have been there in the early days, when other writers pushed each other to greatness, not on how to market shitty books that no one should sell. Art is fucking hard, and it’s even harder when you have to swim upstream by yourself. And trust me, no matter who you are, or how talented, your swim will be damn upstream.
I could write the next 50 Shades of Grey in a month. Hell, I could kick its ass. Why would anyone ever want to write that? Moreover, why do people want to read it?
It’s hard, when people ask me about writing, and I want to tell them that I’ve quit. That I no longer want to be a novelist, despite knowing that I can. They won’t believe me when I tell them it is because people WANT predictable bullshit. Editors WANT all the surprises revealed up front. They want all the stories told in the same way, and all the romances to be MMF or FMF or some other variation of a theme.
How the fuck would they react to my love story about two women? Who cares? All they’d want to know is if the sex is hot.
No, my friends, such as they are, don’t understand I don’t want to be a writer because of them. They don’t give a shit, and the people who do give a shit, want to read books I was too smart to write in the 4th grade.
No, they would just think it’s because my 1st two books don’t sell. I don’t care if they sell. I wrote them in 2 months. I’ve taken longer than that to do my taxes.
Why write, if what I want to do is learn to produce great literature … to write a book in a format and structure that isn’t the 1/4 in surprise, middle half failures, 1/4 out big crisis and climax. If change is bad, what in the fucking hell is the point of being an artist?
None of us has courage, and the public doesn’t want it. Fuck it. I can write the book for me, and my best bud. She’ll think it’s cool to close her eyes, and see the sounds you can smell, the voice that tastes like chocolate, and the smells with their own colors.
And that will be enough for me.