“But if I sing along a little fucking louder…”

 

 

 

 

 

An open letter to Delicious Tacos:

I saw that you posted re: your frustrations writing a book to market. Oh, man, do I feel you there. You had some great comments from readers, too.

Here they are:

Sylvia

July 5, 2016 at 11:37 pm 

You’re not a bad writer you just write about stupid things so 5% of the world’s idiots will have someone to look up to. Why don’t you try like, actually writing something. You’re right, though. Most of your stuff is as rote as you say your dates are. Somewhere down the hill, drive me home oh birds in park. Chicken dinner then sofa fucking too quick.>My life sucks and it’s never going to get any better. I fucked a girl and she was a girl and I got laid and no condom because STDs are lies spread by feminists.

Obviously I know nothing about writing but you can produce better that what you have been. Stop with the essays. If you’re going to write about being a shithead, make it a Confederacy of Dunces style story, or something, Idk. That book had no point but it was pretty awesome. Anyway, I bet you could churn out a really great ACTUAL book if you wanted but you depend too much on this cesspool. Don’t have to accept you’re great if you keep yourself contained in this sludge.

Shylock Holmes

July 6, 2016 at 6:59 am 

I think Sylvia is onto something. I don’t think the subject matter necessarily has to change, since you do tawdry introspection as a means to understanding modern society better than almost anyone. But have you thought about trying longer form writing? The discipline of a novel and a more complex plot structure would certainly force you to write something different.

The other benefit would be to make it explicitly fiction, even if still loosely based on yourself – most people’s actual lives ARE the same thing over, which is why loosely fictionalized versions of the author seem to be such a popular starting point. Except Hemingway, who seemed to just do crazy stuff just to have something to write about. I’m not sure if that’s a better option, he did put a shotgun in his mouth in the end.

REPLY

 

“Reply?” Well, website, don’t mind if I do.

I’ve got to say, while Sylvia and Shylock have some solid points (with which I agree), I’m compelled to point out:

If she thinks toilet humor and crass tales get a small audience, then I’m here to inform her one would damn near need an electron-microscope to see the sales numbers of insightful observations and parables elucidating the vast, complex problems of modernity. Hell, I can barely buy a large pizza with what I make a month on this. (I confess, however, there’s a large middle-ground that I’m, as of yet, unwilling to walk.) Your sales and mine are contextually comparable to The Family Guy vs Arrested Development. We know which still brings in cash, to this day, and which had to claw just to be a “Netflix Presentation”. 

Another two cents I’ll toss into this particular kitty (no pun intended) is the following: 

You confess you do it for cash and ego. Who doesn’t, in some way or another? That’s not really the issue at hand. It’s my belief that you became entangled trying to get approval or cash or success (or some combination thereof), so much so that you’ve lost the love of the art; the wordsmithing; the visceral, emotional reactions garnered from a finely crafted story. But, hey, I don’t know you, personally. Maybe this is all part of a shtick. Lord knows every few months there’s another revelation of reality vs persona in this section of the ‘net. I could be wrong. You can certainly tell me to go shit in my hat. But understand, I’m seriously not trying to be a dick nor am I trying to start some ridiculous internet conflict.

I know I didn’t start out wanting to do this. I had a therapist tell me to start a journal. I figured: if I can’t be well, I may as well write. The internet just happened to be a way that I could tell everyone “I told you so”—  for going on 13 years now. I’ll also say that, while my numbers pale in comparison to just about every other blogger in our corner of the web, I wouldn’t trade my readers for the world. Good-hearted, savvy, hungry to learn folks, they are. And they’re open to seeing things with the aid of my uniquely broken glass, like Svyatoslav Fyodorov, and realizing maybe a bit of it to the eyes will improve vision. They keep me doing this. They gave me a reason to live, again. No doubt. So, while I make take sabbaticals, I’ll never quit. I doubt I’ll even make it big (while alive) but I know for a fact men (and some women, too) read my ideas, pass them around and will keep them thriving long after I’m dust and bones. 

 

Regardless, I say to you:

Take solace in the fact you’ve “made it” more than most (myself included), reassess and press onward.

Learn to love what you do again or, if you feel it necessary, find a new love.

 

Sincerely wishing you the best of luck in your next project,

A♠

 

 

 

 

 

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2 Responses to ““But if I sing along a little fucking louder…””

  1. Thank you for this. I don’t have time to make an in depth response right now. But I want you to know that I read and appreciated it.

    • DT,

      As a (painfully, slowly) recovering Beta schlub I was initially stunned by how little women were actually shocked by your stream-of-consciousness, hold-nothing-back style of writing. It isn’t something you can fake; you have it or you don’t.

      You have a potential “Alfie” or “Swingers” novel or screenplay lurking in your blog. Yours is no ordinary life. Now, I don’t envy you for it because your motivation comes from the current Mojave Romance Desert desiccating all mens’ lives; if anything I empathize. But, it compels you to DO SOMETHING.

      If an “approach machine” with a hardened convict’s body is considering moving to Montana to just GTFO of SoCal … or to Cambodia to have a teenage bride of his own … all whilst seeking God or some kind of meaning … damn, just seems like a majour epiphany is up around the bend. All the best.

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