Category Archives: Just bitching about shit

A 13,000 words big dick

I’m writing this book and goddamn I actually love it. I can’t stop thinking about it. The words are shit and the pacing feels like an episode of The Walking Dead (fucking BORING) but hell once I gut it and sprinkle some glitter on it it’s going to read like a damn orgasm.

I’ve never been obsessed with my own work (which is probably big red flag #1) and it feels very conceited and blind. I feel biased towards it and have big dreams for the outcome. The kind of dreams society was supposed to have stomped out of me at this age, but yet there they are, bubbled up from my skull.

I’m about 13,000 words into it and I think I want it to be short. So even the millennial reader can pry their eyes away from an endless stream of GIFs to read the best story of their lives. I’m thinking 30,000 to 50,000 words. A fucking Novella, which sounds like novel and nutella mixed so YES.

Writing about how I feel about what I’m writing is some twisted Inception mental masturbation inside of a masturbation stuff, but alas. I’m like those rappers who talk about how big their dicks are but never yank the damn thing out. My dick’s about 13,000 words big right now, but the more time I spend with it the bigger it’s gonna get.

 

The Hunt for Outlets: episode Madhouse

It’s midnight and I need to find a place to write. A little coffee shop called Madhouse Coffee is still open. Outside youths sit on chairs like their spines have been kicked in by their overzealous Christian parents. Vape smoke lingers and the smell of vanilla and licorice is strong enough to lure the most strong willed unicorn down from its rainbow. Off my bike and I collect looks – you know the kind. The only clean shaven man with a ring on his finger to be found within a five-mile radius. They can smell the monogamy on me. I enter the establishment and the place is crowded – I forgot people my age like to stay up late. Why aren’t they burned out yet like the rest of humanity? Why aren’t they tucked into the creases of a couch somewhere with their brains smashed against the screen of a TV watching the 18th season of a Netflix original? The walls are plastered with abstract graffiti art and cult film references. They have two tables, a bar (with outlets, I notice immediately) and these weird stairs that are supposed to double as a seating area. I claim my outlet and set my laptop down. Nobody here will steal it. The only risk I run here is getting bombarded with a conversation about neorealism in a governmentally sabotaged reality. This generation is well trained in the art of hypocrisy and so am I. I walk up to the counter and every male barista has their hair grown out and tied into a bun. Rebels who have breached the macho-male stereotype only to fall deep within their own. Every trend starts out like this. He greets me with a nod because he probably thinks I don’t speak his hipster language. I don’t. I ask him if he sells iced coffee because when it snows outside my blood still boils too hot. Yes, he says, obviously. I’m too scared for further judgment so I just take it black and I know he judges me for that too. I sit down and notice I forgot my headphones again. I fucking forgot my fucking headphones fucking again, fuck. I need a moment to prepare myself for my fate. Dance music wasn’t made to write to, I get too caught up with the recycled lyrics. But after some coffee my hyperfocus kicks in and it doesn’t matter. Time to write.

I’m surprised their napkins aren’t made from recycled hemp compost.

(insert title for predictable ramblings on writer’s block here)

I remind myself that I’m no good. Slouched over my computer with a straw just pounding cold coffee into my face. Write. Just write goddamnit. The fate of every sentence on this page is to be deleted. None of this will ever be read.

Well, this will. But the seven sentences before it were aborted before they ever reached punctuation. I’m tempted to take the easy way out. Take a couple’a words and smash ‘em together in a poem. People eat that shit up. I could rhyme in my sleep but I just want to write. Tell stories. Make people chuckle on the bus as they bury their eyes into their cellphones.

Just write.

Today’s stories are composed of the exact same components but just rearranged. I could summarize every young adult NY Times bestseller right now by saying it’s about a girl conflicted between loving two guys and at least one of them could do considerable damage to her. Young women love knowing there’s a guy out there who can’t decide if he wants to love her or beat the living shit out of her.

But I don’t want to write Young Adult it’s just that I’m not sophisticated enough to write real thrillers or romance novels. Maybe if I drink more Merlot and less Riesling. Start wearing a suit and say goodbye to the jeans and T. Change my haircut from “Medusa” to “Bond”. I could write adult fantasy, but that’s not really an accomplishment because every grown man turns into his 8 year old counterpart when he reads about dwarfs, knights, elves, and all of them fucking each other. There is no distinction between adult fantasy and teen fantasy except that the latter is written for girls and involves more vampires and the prior is written for grown men and involves more dicks.

Stories feel so washed. I don’t want to write another predictable plot twist.