Being A Writer Is Like Wearing A Straightjacket In The Washing Machine

One of those damn days, innit?

It’s been months since yer sent yer novel to at least six bastard literary agents.

You were happy at the time with their submission guidelines that said they are too fancy to write you a five-second email telling yer that yer shit ain’t shit. But today, it’s not good enough. It makes yer wanna mail them all dried-out ghost pepper turds with cocktail umbrellas stuck in them.

And your mentor, Henrik Hunt, the author of the Jack Flashcock series, tells ya that:

Six agents ain’t nuthin, Kid. Yer should contact at least a hundred. Yer gotta stick yer balls in the vice if yer wanna play scrabble.

But yer look down at your waist getting fucking fatter every day, and yer think, yer just need to move.

Yer need to exercise, yer fat fuck.

Yer just need to stop stuffing yer damn face with motherfucking weasel burgers and eat like a god damn anorexic hamster instead.

And go for a walk, you arsehole. Go for a fucking hike down the greasy street, you fucking elephant cunt.

And yer look in yer shady inbox to see if any corporate schmunks want yer to write some shady copywriting so they can sell erectile medicine to single dads

Yer pray and pray to the lizard god that there’s a job so yer can buy a Costco chicken and feed yer cats for another week.

But there’s nowt. So yer faith in the lizard god falls by yet another 2.5 points.

And, yer cry like a little bitch instead cos all yer once-loyal clients all prefer the grey, boredom of chatGBH dressed up by a few SEO keywords.

Cos the internet isn’t interesting anymore. It’s like Knockturn Alley with dark wizards on every corner trying to suck yer into their whirlpool sales funnels where yer end up with a bag full of toad’s bollocks and bat tits.

So fuck it. Why would they want content that elicits human emotions?

It’s fine. Thanks for your time.

So yer make another coffee and avoid embellishing it with a spoon of maple syrup cos yer hate yerself.

And yer remember that even Harry Potter got rejected by nine hundred literary agents. And all of them do, apparently, according to Henrik.

So why should yer sit crying into yer luminous AppleJacks like a luminous pink fanny?

Shouldn’t yer be celebrating like Stephen King by pinning yer rejection slips to the wall until they are thicker than yer stepmother’s nipples?

And yer would like to do that if any of the fuckers bothered getting back to yer. At least yer would have something to show for yer bitter sweat and drama. One line would be fine — something like:

Fuck you, you loser.

And ya know yer just wanna be one of those bellends that keep emailing them — not in a creepy way at first, just a gentle:

Are you sure you don’t want to publish my book? The only reason I ask is that it appears you have published numerous volumes of utter goatshit. So I’m assuming you’ve sent the email asking me for the rest of my manuscript to the wrong email. To confirm, it’s franktbird@protonmail.com, not gmail. Don’t worry. It’s a common mistake.

But the Dolores Umbridge voice in yer head tells yer that goat turd sells whilst interesting original funny writing is unwanted.

It’s okay. I can understand that. Time away from TikTok is limited. We have no time for shit that makes us think or laugh anymore.

Thanks for your time.

So yer keep bangin’ away on Substack instead for that fifty buck finger up the arse

Cos it will still buy yer at least a six-pack of noodles and a giant can of tuna for the cats, so yer feel the mild stench of gratitude for a moment.

But yer think yer cant fuckin go on like this.

• Yer wanna turn yer books into paperbacks, but it’s 120 bucks for ISBNs, whatever the fuck they are.

• And it’s gonna be a grand for an editor for yer next project.

• And the rent’s due Motherfucker.

So yer might have to rob the petrol station again with the breadstick under the teatowel, and yer hope they’ve taken yer picture down since last time.

But don’t stress. Yer 60k words into yer latest project, and that's something to be proud of according to Henrik.

But yer wonder if it’s just a screenplay, not a novel cos yer fuckin hate novels but yer love films and yer just can’t be fucked filling the gaps between the action and dialogue with pieces of mouldy marshmallow, so yer just think yer a screenwriter, and that’s all fine, except there’s no safety net of self-publishing when yer get rejected.

Fuck it.

Yer need someone who knows whats up to fall out of the purple sky (not Henrik, nor the Lizard God) and say:

Yer know what, this is what yer have to do. Put yer faith in it, and it will work out.

Then yer can forget about it and keep banging yer head against the bricks without doubtin’ yerself.

Yer can just get on with shit like Julian Assange building his Airfix models in prison.

But yer know that purple sky life coach ain’t comin'. Cos this ain't Disneyland you sticky wiener detective.

So yer sit down and write another dead ferret prostate of an article on Substck instead. Now, where’s that damn treadmill?

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