You Might Be An Asshole If…

Fair warning.

I’ve had a bit of the devil juice (sangria–sang, meaning blood. Ria, meaning… something).

I may say a few things SOME people might find offensive.

You aren’t those people. I can tell.

FUCK those people.

See? Warned you.

A while back (I’d link to it, but I’m lazy) I posted a blog about the different kinds of writers. As I’ve been dragged deeper into the publishing world, gotten some good experience (and some bad) under my belt, and infiltrated circles of writers I’d yet to discover, I’ve realized that list needed an update.

A good hacking with the ol’ ax, really.

Hack them all except two.

There are two kinds of writers in this world.

Those who know nothing, and those who KNOW they know nothing.

Those who know nothing are the worst. The mother-fucking, dog-shitting, ape-sucking, jiz-guzzling worst. Their work, their “writing,” their foray into the publishing world is overwrought with bullies. These bullies will go so far as OFFERING ADVICE and CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM. How could they? Those who know nothing know EVERYTHING. They may ask for a hint or two… maybe something that would improve their characters or marketing strategy. But really, all they want is a good, long stroke.

The Know Nothings thrust their egos into the already bullshit-soaked social media and beg for a tug. Just a little one to get them through to their next BORING release party.

This group–The Know Nothings–is home to the majority of the writing community. They don’t want to improve. Their projects are God’s gift to the world. Everyone else is wrong.

Thing is, though, everyone else thinks they’re assholes.

And they are. These writers…

God.

I know, as writers, we’re not supposed to shit on our kin. It’s a tough road to sow as a creator and we should be charging forth as companion soldiers in the war.

But, FUCK.

Okay. OKAY.

There’s this other group though, the rest of us, who know that we know nothing.

Literally, nothing.

Sure we can breathe. We can stuff food-shaped things into our mouth hole. We can (usually) find a toilet when we need to piss.

But when it comes to the craft, we know that there is ALWAYS

ALWAYS

ALLLLLWWWAAAYYYYSSSS

Something more to learn. To know. To cram into the brain meat with a shoehorn.

For us, the Know Nothing Assholes grate on our nerves.

On my nerves.

….

And that’s it. I know you were expecting some point or moral here, but all I’ve got is this:

Don’t be that guy.

Don’t be the asshole that thinks his writerly shit doesn’t stink.

Don’t think for even a microsecond that you know enough.

Most of all, don’t encourage those asshats that need coddling. Don’t stroke the ego.

Don’t. Stroke.

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Merry ChristmaHanukwanzaNaNo Or: Why NaNo in November was a TERRIBLE Idea.

Halloween is over and with it your Very Good Excuse to wear that hairless boner costume. Candy sits in half-eaten piles on your counter and in your bed (I promise we won’t tell). The sunny days of Autumn have been replaced by “snow/rain” mixes in the forecast and a cloud cover that’ll last until April.

That’s right. It’s November. For REAL. For most of us, that makes it National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Last I shouted obscenities at you and called it a blog post, I told you all I’d be participating.

I lied.

No, that’s a lie.

I didn’t lie, so much as change my mind because NaNoWriMo in November is the most insane, terrible, MASOCHISTIC idea ever.

Allow me to let you in on a little secret. When retail stores set out their Christmas decorations bright and early on November 1st, it’s not JUST because they want you in that frenzied, buy everything NOW while it’s at a LOW, LOW COST as soon as possible. It’s also because the holidays STAMPEDE toward us at a pace that’s immeasurable in this dimension. Blink, and you’ll find yourselves sitting across from Great Aunt Marge who likes to make kissy faces at your husband (or wife, whatever) after a few glasses of the cooking sherry.

Throw in the bullshit of first snowfalls, school vacations and–CHRIST HELP ME–three goddamned birthdays in the span of a month and that leaves just enough time to take a healthy shit and MAYBE eat a granola bar or two.

Today, I talked briefly with a friend of a mine about how writing is a stress reliever. And then my mind went to that dark place where NaNo-ers pound the keys, sweat pouring down their faces, caffeine IVs plugged into veins and snaked around catheters and MY GOD… It turns something I enjoy into something to be FEARED. Talk about TRAUMA.

Even now as I sit typing out this MEANINGLESS clutch of wordy things, my mind wanders to the laundry I haven’t done in almost two weeks.

I’m not saying NaNo is a bad idea. I think–for MOST writers–a deadline is necessary to motivate them. The community surrounding NaNoWriMo is the most supportive, cheerleading bunch of fuckers I’ve ever come across. The endless back-patting, face-smacking, coffee-filling wonderful is, well, wonderful.

Let’s just save it for another month, maybe?

Like January, when we’re all stuck inside because if we were to step foot out the door, our nose hairs would freeze and our insides would shrivel from the biting wind.

Or even February. Still cold as a holy mother fucker then, AND there’s the added bonus of blowing off a holiday no one likes because, you know, you have WORDS to write, god dammit.

See? You’re liking my idea already. Let’s see how many people we can bribe/threaten to joining us in the land of BASIC FUCKING LOGIC.