Sunday, July 19, 2009


I write fiction. But at the moment, I'm writing an essay on spec. An essay! This can be dodgy. Chances are 30/70 that it will be a complete waste of time. (Translation: I might never sell the fucker. And I'm definitely not in this whole 'writing game' for the typing practice.)

I will say this: it's about mental illness. And I know what I'm talking about.

I've been writing all weekend. The bastard's up to about 4,000 semi-decent words -- first draft, hammers-and-tongs, let 'er rip, crazy as hell.

What a dumb-ass way to spend a vacation. (Hey, you young people and newly-weds: Do not try this at home. Unless you want to be divorced. I've been married thirty-six years. And I can tell you: it takes a special woman to put up with my summer job.)

P.S. Beer helps.

Oh yeah: and mamas, don't let your kids grow up to be writers. For the love of jeebus, don't do it. Have some decency. Show some mercy. Make them learn a useful fucking trade.

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