Thursday, August 11, 2011

Get over yourselves, writer douchebags.

So you're a writer.

We'll, whoop-te-fucking-do.

I know, I know. Nobody understands you. And you feel things so much more deeply than everyone else. You're always daydreaming, always thinking up your next story.

Unlike the person at the cash register. Unlike the guy working on your car. Unlike the person teaching your kids.

You're special.

The fuck you are.

You might have a skill that some other people don't. You know what? They have their own skills. I don't know why you think your skills are so superior. Because you're in such demand? The fuck you are. If you're Stephen King, your skills are in demand. Otherwise, your shit is going to end up in one of those discount book stores in those sad little outlet malls on the side of the interstate, right next to the Nike outlet. And the Nike outlet will be selling a lot more socks than the bookstore will be of your book, even if your book is 3-4 dollars less than the socks. And that's if you're lucky.

I don't know how we got on this kick about writers being rock stars. You know who are rock stars? Rock stars.

I think some of it is leftover from the days when people actually gave a shit when a book came out. People used to line up to get the latest Hemingway, back when people didn't have TV and X-Box. Now it's news when three people publish a book: Stephen King, Dan Brown, and J.K. Rowling. Oh, and rock stars.

Maybe some of it is because of the Internet, where you can now be in a big circle jerk with other writers and pretend that no one in the world gives a shit about anything or anyone but writing and writers.

And even if you are in demand, how much are you making on your book? Five grand? Holy shit, you'd be doing better at Wal-Mart. I've seen some shit from people who've been on the New York Times bestseller list, who've made a lot more than five grand on their book, but after all their expenses they're still left with maybe 20 grand, if they're lucky. That's sad, dude. That's barely scraping by.

But you resent the hell out of that, don't you? In your world, you'd be paid what your writing is worth. Well, here's the deal, smart guy: you're getting paid what your writing is worth right now. You can bitch all you want about how your werewolf book is worth more than $.99 on Kindle. Go ahead: bitch. You know who ain't bitching? Your auto mechanic. You want your fucking car fixed, you'll pay what he asks. Or get the fuck out of his shop.

And please don't give me that shit about mankind's eternal thirst for narrative. Mankind may have a thirst, but there are a million watering holes just like yours. There's no shortage of material for thirst-quenching.

Oh, but wait. You don't care about recompense. No, you are ze fucking artiste! You suffer for your goddamn werewolf romance Art. Well, good for you! Now take your head out of your ass.

I'm serious. You have your head so far up your ass you can't write about anything other than the inside of your own rectum. You're so in love with the idea of yourself as a writer that you can't write about anything that anyone gives a shit about. I mean, who cares about you? You sit around in front of a computer all day. That's boring as shit to read about. Other people actually do stuff. Step outside yourself, quit worrying about being Mr. Fancy Writer Cockass, and write about them. If you really have skills, congratulations. Now shut up and put your skills to use. Be a voice for the voiceless. You remember Barton Fink, right? That's you. The guy next door has some good stories. He has something in the box. You don't have shit.