I Have Noticed, of Late,
That I Cannot Procreate…
I Wanna Be A Paperback Writer
So You Wanna Be A Writer?
So, You Want To Be A Writer?
Video Credit: Shea et Al
This was originally written for just one person, But in my vain vanity fantasy, I decided to ‘Shit-Post’ it here.
(Because I am Lost at sea… And exhibiting my most hated characteristics: self-pity and self-loathing)
Lost at Sea
These are gonna come off as some really vain, pompous questions, but questions I struggle with every day:
1. Am I ‘Interesting?’
2. Is my writing worth a fuck?
3. Or am I just another schmuck?
4. Who calls Himself a ‘Writer?’
(There are many more I beat myself up over, and if you drill down into my archives, you may be happy/unhappy to discover them, but for the purposes of THIS Post, They are Not Germane.)
Not fishing for validation, compliments, nor smoke blown up my vanity ass—Honesty.
Honesty is all I need. All I desire.
If my writing is only self-serving, then I am a failure (as a writer)
Please be honest—Trust me: I can take it—There is no harsher critic of me, than me.
Sometimes I feel lost at sea—And, as a sailor, this is never a good thing.
I keep watching/listening to Bukowski and asking myself these questions.
Take some time with your respond:
I am way past the point of counting upon ‘Instant Gratification.’
Cheers My Good,
–Many-Feet Marcom—Wanna-Be Writer
Too Sad That Billy Got Old.
I Suppose Shit Like That Happens
“I prefer not to have the aroma of meat shits in my maxwell house.”
Laughs are MAGIC To My Ears… Er… Eyes.
–Lance, Who is A lot
The Mickey O’Rourke vehicle Barfly was based on Factotum, wasn’t it? And by the way, for some odd reason a coffee pot comment just inserted itself into my comment box.
Gawd-o-mightee, man go to wall marts and buy a proper coffee maker. They is cheep thar’. But to each his own. I prefer not to have the aroma of meat shits in my maxwell house.
All I can say is “Wow!”
You got drunk with Bukowski!
I am so jealous
Once I was a drunk and a soldier. I got a bonus and I roamed the California highway one in the eighties. I wanted to drink in every bar. I had a lot of money and I met a old man. He liked me. I bought the drinks. We talks for hours and he read my work. He told me. I wrote like shit. Suffer some more and you can write better. I didn’t know he was famous till years later. He was cool, Charles Bukowski. He like real talk and he didn’t like fake people. He could drink.
Thank you so much John.
I have more to say on this subject, but right now I am watching piss-pants Joe — State-of-the-Union
Us, who love to write. We are mad-men and mad-women. I will publish some books this year. I have 2500 poems and stories. I better do soon, or I will never do. I met Bukowski, a long time ago. I bought the drinks, and I didn’t know who he was. He told me. You write like shit. Live and suffer some more. You will write better.