While I’m busy cleaning up loose ends and failed endeavors, I’ve decided to withdraw all of my books from publication, effective immediately. I’m tired of swimming upstream against a tide of indifference. I’ve gotten a few rejects from agents, but that’s not the reason. I honestly don’t give a damn what an agent thinks. I don’t write what others write and I don’t like to read what others read. As such, my books will never be mainstream in my life. Novels all follow the same formulas within their appointed genres and those books bore the hell out of me.
I bought Gone Girl, best-seller and hot movie. Hated it. Why? The author purposely made all of the characters unlikable. In most of my work, most of the characters are likeable. I won’t spend even an hour of my time with someone, even a fictional someone, that I don’t like. I FUCKING HATE television. I’ve never watched even a single second of the Cable shows that people rave about on FacePuke. I HATED, HATED, HATED Hugh Howey’s bleak short story series, “Wool.” Others like it. There’s nothing wrong with them, or me. I simply don’t find bleakness, darkness, obsessively maladjusted people interesting or novel.
I don’t fit into literary culture, and I don’t fucking want to. I finish fewer than 10% of the books I start, because I hate them. I’ve come to the conclusion that either the world is in an emotional eclipse, or those of us who aren’t are too busy wandering through fields for art.
Literature is dead, but books survive. Art is dead, and who the FUCK cares, right?
Well, I still do, and fuck those who don’t. I’m damned tired of struggling, so from now on, I stop. I’ll probably keep writing, because it amuses me. It even amuses me that only my wife has/will ever read my best work. Maybe that will turn me bitter enough that I can one day do something popular. Probably not.
Oh well. Fuck it.