Why is it you write poetry, what does it do for you, exactly? Do you long for the fame and the fortune, an endless line of beautiful women staring in only your direction? Affection, is that what this is all about? Crazy amounts of affection.
Not too many of you make it. You know that, right? You know that most, if not all of the good ones fall by the wayside, agonisingly so, in fact. I only say this because it’s unnatural the amount of time you put into it, the sweat and the blood. Wouldn’t you far rather be out and about meeting a friend, as much as a girl, perhaps?!
What I hear, you don’t even like to read. Never did. They tell me you haven’t read a book in just shy of a decade – that’s absurd, like a musician who doesn’t ever fancy listening to any other musicians sing. Are you mad?!
Then there’s your readings – when you do take it upon yourself to read, only ever your own stuff, of course – I saw you once and you were raw, painstakingly raw and rickety. I bet you don’t even know what that word means, rickety. Well, do you?
I’ve read some of your stuff and it’s OK, I mean it does what it’s supposed to do, no more, no less. I bet you hate to hear that, I bet it tears you up inside. Am I right, is that what it does to you? All you want to hear, see, is people shout your name from the rooftop, fall at your feet and worship everything. Do you think that that’s what happens to Stephen King and Chuck Palahniuk – they get worshipped all the day long?! Well OK, they do but it took time, a truckload of time, more time than you can even imagine, and even then it probably didn’t turn out what they wanted.
You want to write a book? A book about what, what kind of book could you write than noone else has ever written? Forget the book, just… just forget all of it, stop thinking about these things; stop making life difficult for yourself just this one time! Can you do that for me, please?
Truth be told, there’s more chance of you winning the lottery, no word of a Goddamn lie, my friend.

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