So You Want To Be A Writer - Part Deux

Reading Bryan's last post reminds me of just how long I've been dumping time and energy into this whole writing gig. It’s been a long ride. I ought to be wearing a leather mask and a ball gag, because as far as masochistic professions go, being a career writer probably only lags behind porcupine artificial insemination, or being the programming director for Lifetime TV. All those lost nights with my ass planted in a chair, the piles of monotonously vague rejection letters, the deteriorating spinal column, and the empty bottles of beer: It's been worth something hasn't it? I mean, we’ve finally gotten some editorial attention, but is it too late? Has the publishing ship already swirled too far down the toilet? Is print dead?

A perusal of the local bookstand says no. You can still have a highly lucrative career in authorship if: A) You got into the biz at least a decade ago and have henceforth been moderately successful, or, B) If you have at least one reality TV show to your professional credit and are wisely cashing in on the fleeting novelty of your amusing dumbfuckery. At least people are reading, right? Right?

Going back to the topic of Bryan’s post, who wouldn't think that modern novel writing is an Easy-Bake cakewalk when such accomplished and, uh...talented celebrities as Tyra Banks and Glenn Beck can do it? Don't get me wrong, I'm sure they worked their asses off to gain every single follower in their respective zombie hordes, but are they writers? Unfortunately, the bean counters at Random House and Simon and Schuster seem to think so. From an aging supermodel with the brazen brainpower of a narcissistic mattress stain, comes the next great work of American literature, Modelland (epic title, no?), which got picked up for a three-book deal. What’s next? Gangstaville  by Kanye West?

It's clear to me now that I may have been going about this all wrong. Instead of spending countless hours shut away in a closet, writing bad novel after bad novel and honing my craft, I should have been out spinning gimmicks and bullshitting my way into alchemizing my name into a whoreable shiny logo. Then I might’ve just slapped my McHancock on the cover and not had to bother with the pesky nuances of craft or grammar like the rest of those literary goobers. I could just pay a ghostwriter (Or three, Mr. Beck) to wipe my ass, photocopy the results, ship them to the nearest starving publishing house, and bask in the glory of my own proxy genius. But, I guess you can't fault the publishers like Random for printing lucrative junk. The written word is indeed dying, and even the biggest houses are struggling to stay afloat, even if that means doing so by clutching turds.

So, what's the point of doing it? Why bother waiting for the breakthrough? Why fight all the way to actually selling a book, only to find out that the real labor (promotional self-pimping) has just begun? Aside from being able to publicly satirize everything in sight and hopefully do it in an entertaining way…I guess the only real reason is because I don’t have a choice. I makes the words, or else I goes crazy.

-brandon


Music: The Dresden Dolls
Shower: A race against the clock (now that I'm home again).
Beer: Nein. Empty refrigerator.

And...because her name should never be completely forgotten when it comes to the subject of shitty novels.