the publisher will do the rest, of course the fucking writer hates it all! spills his guts like a crazed idiot only for it to go absolutely nowhere, and yet the only real place where he is happiest – or even happy at all – is soon as stuck between those pages. how marvellously sad. how i-d-i-o-t-i-c. and a writer cannot but persist so that they might some time find a style. a style that can somehow manage to grab all of the right words in the whole world and place them in the… wait for it… mixed up right order. any writer worth any sort of salt will be madder than most people and the word normal need never ever apply itself. a writer hates that people think he wants to be called a writer, unless of course he is famed for that exact same endeavour. only then will he start to own the most mysterious title in the universe. and most definitely fall apart at the seams owing to the pressure cooker continually going on inside his head. there is only one place left for their hope for some kind of happiness to run away and go and that is in accomplishing the tallest order of them all in becoming a success story of outlandish sorts. i for one have come to the conclusion i write shit. i mean i tried to create good good stuff for a while there but the self-pressure is atrocious. every word in every kind of goddamn media outlet – internet, telly, books, even – becomes a fucking racket of nonsense and constant noise. actually scratch that – books mainly!! an absolute grade-a shit storm of literary plagiarism the world bloody over. shit slow texts filled with mechanical words and utter misdirected description. drink twenty mugs of hard caffeine, smoke a helluva load of weed, take that drug that pulls at your seriously awash senses and see where that might take you. why the fuck are people so enamoured with this stereotypical side of a writer? because given half the chance they too would probably either do the same themselves or their big-headed brains will force them too. Come on! if roundabout ninety percent of the people in the universe want to keep joking around about blowing their brains out for the jobs that they force themselves daily to keep pushing away at while they rot all the way up to their graves, then i can absolutely see the appeal of an entirely alternative way of opening up the mind further in possibly giving yourself a chance at actually achieving the nigh on impossible in literature. there is no real holy grail, just a far prettier and far more rock ‘n’ roll type of lifestyle painted only by that writer’s livid mind. all of our jaded minds. am i wrong in my feelings? maybe i am, yes, but no way a writer can change their mind on this subject above any other. deeper you go the bigger the mental hellhole it seems to be. right now today if i could make the whole writing part of my brain disappear then rest assured i’d do it immediately. when writing for no-one becomes the hard-faced truth it really is all metaphorical guns pressed against your own head. excuse the no capitals and no nothings in each sentence. that’s how this morning has been for me with the scribbles. an absolute egotistical mess of a git with too much time on his hands and no real life happening around anything else so that one day so soon i might actually be able to turn writing back into a mere hobby. wouldn’t that be incredible. besides, who makes their writing a ‘job’ only minus the money anyway!!?

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