You're a Fucking Writer, Aren't You?

Why don't you start acting like it, you fucking pussy?

Listen up, you fucks

In 1968 Charles Bukowski was investigated by the FBI for being a dirty old cunt. And modern writers like us tend to wet our bloomers when we hear crap like that. Because we are writers in a time when the world is relatively safe. N yeah ya might cry about Gaza and Ukraine n all the other turds, but trust me, compared to the past, this reality we live in now is about as dangerous as a gang of golden retrievers on MDMA.

It is reflected in our attitudes to our writing. How often is our writing dangerous enough to upset our partners, our children, our cats, never mind dangerous enough to alert the fucking authorities?

Let’s not even start to go into the list of books that were banned and fucking burned in the past.

N yeah ya can write ya fuckin story about trans-goblins with syphilis riding trains in rainbow land or ya can write about Terry Grey, a narcissistic rich alpha worm who likes to sew his wild beans whipping the snatches of various fanilla girls n ya think ya being fucking edgy but ya not. Yer still a damn fuckin pussy.

At some stage, ya gonna have to stop giving a smoking fuck what any fucker thinks including ya wife n ya kids n ya fuckin parrot called William Dafoe who keeps yelling suck my dick at the fuckin postman. Cos if ya give even the tiniest fuck about upsetting people, yer writing is always gonna be a fucking butt beef pie with bullshit sauce.

Sorry to break that to ya.

N yeah ya might be able to read Save a Cat writes a fuckin Novelinski n get ya structure down n fill it with Mills n Boon horseshit about throbbing shafts n quims. Ya might even be able to write about a man stabbing his wife forty-two times with a fuckin potato masher n the meth-addicted anti-hero detective who investigated. But ya know what? It's all cliche as fuck, you fuck.

But it's not your fault. It's cos ya still piss scared to write what everyone is thinking but no one wants to write about cos it might just shine that big peach-coloured spotlight on what an absolute cunt they are or were or will become.

N if ya have people who see ya in a certain light it's gonna be fuckin scary.

Cos we live in a time where we can't write flawed characters doing flawed things anymore cos as the author of the work, whatever our characters do we are assumed to either have done ourselves or at least found the behaviour agreeable.

Except for murder. Murder is something very acceptable in the literary world.

But ya can't write a racist character.

Fuck no.

Or a character that doesn’t believe men with cocks in bras should be allowed into women's bathrooms with young girls cos yer a fucking nazi cunt.

So, at some stage, ya gonna have to accept one of two things.

Either:

1.) You ain't a fucking writer, Kid.

Yer a fucking sellout biscuit sniffer who wants a bestseller so they can get sucked off or get minge-licked by literary groupies after doing fancy signings in fancy bookshops all over this fucking flat earth. Why don’t you follow Gwyneth Paltrow on Instagram instead? Become an entreprewanker and invent a candle that smells like your shite or your cum?

OR

2.) Ya gonna have to fuckin upset some people.

And that means the people close to ya too.

When I was fourteen, I made a hole in the bathroom wall, spied on my sister in the bath and had a great time. Later in my life, I caught herpes from a backpacker in Northern Australia and subsequently passed it on to two other people. Even later, I went through a phase where I was a peeping Tom, addicted to Diet Coke and watching big-titted maidens while hiding in their gardens.

And that's all the tame stuff.

In my book, The Therapist I wrote about a peeping tom who goes around spying in people's windows and jacking off. And I knew that people close to me from my present and past, including my family, would see it. I knew it to such a point that I put an apology at the start of the book. The apology wasn’t for the material in the book. It was an apology for the stuff I’d done as an anarchic sexual teenager and twenty-something—stuff that, these days, would have me strung up in front of the Cancel Council with an apple in my wet gob.

A couple of weeks ago, a fellow writer on Substack asked me for advice on how to make his writing less boring.

I told him to think about all the things in his head that he didn't want people to know and then write about them.

Cos that's the only way we can free those blocks in our head to do truly great work.

N I know, yer sitting there with ya fuckin Macbook Pro n ya cup of St Johns Wort tea and staring at the blank fucking page which is looking at ya with those fuck me eyes as usual, and ya performance anxiety is kicking in once again.

N there aint no blue pills in this literary minefield, you fucks.

So listen.

Writing is a process of opening up.

N I’m not trying to be a cliche fuck here. But it's true. Ya have to give yourself permission to write ya deepest secrets on the page and be fucked if ya kids or ya grandma fuckin reads it.

Ya like an actress who chooses to flash her minge in a hot scene with that handsome fucker, Ryan Goblin.

So, are ya a fucking artist or a fucking damn pussy fuck?

You have to decide.

Will you let this world of pathetic little fucks push you around and censor you?

Or will you pursue your fucking art and die broke and lonely, having bled the contents of your heart onto the page like the great writers of the past?

You have ten seconds to decide, you degenerate cuntbean.

Go…

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