Who wants to be a full-time writer?
Fuck Writing For A Living
A wizard with blue eyes appeared to me in a dream. He said our writing energy is like a limited supply of gold coins given to us each day which we should spend wisely
I know what happens. I’ve been there.
You wake up at a casual ten AM.
Your wife or husband or equivalent has nicked off to their 9–5 job, so you seize the opportunity to engage in a long wank over the oldish neighbour with the size 78DDD melons who is sunbathing again in her purple knickers.
Eventually, you ejaculate or equivalent, have your obligatory moment of self-reflection about what a perverted loser you are and whether you should nap for another few hours before you finally crawl off to your writing desk by 12.30.
Ah, the life of a writer, what fucking luxury. What an absolute dream, isn’t it?
You sit there, going blind from staring at a screen, getting slowly fatter, slowly more anti-social, blood pressure rising, the ache in your left leg inflaming from the massive bag of M&Ms you ate the night before.
And, you think, what should I write today?
- Perhaps a fictional article about the misery of being led into World War Three by a geriatric, dementia ridden old gentleman who can’t string a sentence together?
- Perhaps a meta article about how writers should write more about how writers would make more money if they wrote more about serious topics such as articles about the misery of being led into World War Three by— well, you get the point.
You sip on your coffee and self-loathing for a moment and notice all the speeding fines pinned to the two-dollar corkboard/whiteboard combo that you never use. You start having a panic attack.
You breathe in and out…