The start of something new

Every bit of writing advice I’ve ever gotten has started the same way. It doesn’t matter the source - be it an craft-book from a famous writer or the drunken ramblings of a barstool poet laureate.

Don’t. Just don’t. Turn back. Go away. There’s no money in it. Why are you wasting time on that shit? You’re going to die alone and penniless. That’s how most writers end up. Alcoholism is in the cards for you, friend. So is destitution. You know what would be good for you? Be a doctor or an engineer, or throw on a helmet and join NASA. You could go to the moon someday. Could you imagine that? My boy on the moon. Or not.

Do anything but become a writer.

Ever seen Fight Club? You know that scene outside the Paper Street Soap Company when Tyler is putting together Project Mayhem and he’s having prospects line up outside. What’s the line?

Three days without food, shelter, or encouragement.

That’s not it entirely but it’s close enough for government work.

During this time, they are insulted and told to leave. Your admissions interlocutors visit all your flaws. If you’re old they tell you you’re too old. If you’re fat, you’re too fat. If you’re skinny, you’re too skinny. If your tits are big, well, you get the idea.

That’s what it feels like to become a writer. Except the three days of testing your gumption goes on for a hell of a lot more. And for awhile, the only person insulting you about your faults and flaws is yourself. Until you get yourself to a level of competence where you can start querying agents and publishers. /Except they don’t hit you with a broom. They kill you with silence. And there’s also no guarantee that the three days will ever end.

So why do it at all?

Because those us of on this path didn’t choose it. We didn’t really have a choice.

I know what you’re going to say here.

“You could always not write. Lots of people do it everyday.”

Those people aren’t writers.

If you’re a writer you can get away with it for awhile. Eventually, though, the nagging returns. The itch. A confluence of ideas will piece themselves together using their own unique memetic chemistry and you’ll come out with what seems at first glance to be a fully formed idea.

It isn’t, though. It needs work. They always do. So you revisit it.

Then you can’t sleep one night because parts of it are bothering you. You get up and find a piece of printer paper and write it out.

As you cast your bleary eyes to the rising sun what you have before you is an inkling of a story. It still needs work but that rumbly gut feeling returns. That excited feeling of visiting worlds that aren’t your own, and exploring themes that are pertinent and important to you. You’ve also got two hours to sleep, shower and get to work. Joy!

Then fuck. You’re back! You’ve relapsed. You’re writing again. The first step is to recognize you have a problem, but there is no second step. For us, this is our higher power. At least it is for me.

So this is why I’m here and this is what I do. Frankly speaking, I’m probably going to catch critical hell for the melodrama of it, but I’ve always felt it’s not just what I do but a large part of who I am.

Even I cringe that the melodrama inherent in that statement, but it’s… honest. Even brutally so.

I figure if I’m going to go at this writing thing with all I’ve got, then getting on with the brutal honesty is the only way to do it.

So this is the start of something new.

I’ll be using this space as a place to sell my books, keep you updated and give my thoughts on writing and the craft, and maybe any old thing that happens to be on my mind. I’ll also be adding a portfolio tab to the website (since this post is going to be mirrored on the Ink and Ambition substack) for some of my journalism greatest hits for when and if I decide maybe it’s time to seek out greener pastures.