A writing challenge for dead writers
How Am I Gonna Pull This Off?
Is it possible to write every day in August?
I hate writing challenges.
I don’t mind writing goals. I just usually keep that shit to myself. In fact, the only reason I am writing this is cos I am sinking in the swamp like the fuckin God damn horse out of the Neverending Story, and I need to attempt the impossible to pull my furry white arse out of this smuffhole.
How did this happen?
I wonder if Hemmingway and all those bastards had these problems back in the day. Has writer’s depression always existed? And no, it’s not like regular depression. I ain’t fucking depressed, but I’m depressed as a writer. Ya wanna know why?
A hundred and seventy Medium articles deep, and I’m thinking, WHY? Why is approximately a hundred and seventy grand of literary O+ floating out in the ether like fucking Sandra Bullock in Gravity?
No one is reading that shit, and Medium isn’t showing that shit to anyone.
And it seems the only way Medium will show your shit to more people is if you write more new shit every day that you can fucking dump out into the cold black space that is Medium. So ya churn out shit that people can read for two weeks, but then that’s it. It becomes invisible. So what the fuck is the damn point?
On top of that, I’m studying poetry, and my lecturer is a lazy fucker that just gives you a list of readings and gives a talk once a fortnight for forty minutes. So I wanna love poetry, but I still find it as stimulating as a dead badger's cock.
I’m also studying feature writing, which —it turns out —involves meeting with and interviewing strangers as well as researching in the library. I just wanted to learn to write for publications, but once again, the university system has turned out to be ravishingly disappointing and set me the task of dedicating my whole fucking life to writing one damn article.
If I were a gambling man, I’d put a fifty on me failing that god forsaken subject.
I’m also studying editing. So far, I’ve learned to use a style guide, and I’m three weeks deep. Makes me want to take a shit in the lecturer’s prized seventeenth-century goat horn love bowl (Don’t ask, okay).
An I’m frozen looking out into the shitshow of a writer’s life in this age. And I just don’t know how to proceed.
I finish writing my Novelinski, and who will fucking understand it enough to edit it? The writing industry is like a giant cock ring around ya creativity.
And some days it feels like writing is like fucking the rusty hole in the back of yer fridge.
Then I think about what a good writing life looks like. Ya know, one where ya get paid to write what ya want, and I wonder if that’s any better.
Maybe writer’s depression is like normal depression.
I don’t know. I’ve done too much corporate shagwork lately and had Chinese food for dinner so it's fucking hard to tell.
I think I have a dopamine problem.
So I’ve been going to the gym and pumping some iron. And my copywriting work has finally fucking dried up for now. Thank Christ.
And I’m gonna start drinking Yerba Mate in the morning and intermittent fasting and watching Andrew Huberman videos and walking after each meal and taking fish oil and vitamin D and meditating every six hours and learning to touch type and speak Spanish and go to yoga and pilates and write every motherfucking day and do Brazilian Ju Jitsu and Aikido and Smoke some DMT and eat more eggs and less Chinese food and sleep better you fuckers.
But it’s not gonna help.
The only solution is to keep fucking that sexy, rusty, reverse-fridge love hole.
I have to write every day iN August and not those pussy-arsed three hundred word short form cum dandruff turds that you pricks pump out through sheer desperation.
I’m talking about the good old thousand-word minimum cock bangers.
Too long on this platform, and ya want everything to be a masterpiece. But it can’t be that way. Don’t we all know by now that it's wrong to try and write good shit? Isn’t it better to just write? Or is that just some deranged Anthony Robbins Robin Sharma rainbow smeg coated biscuit porn goulash?
August is ‘force out a massive blue whale shit and smear it in the giant space forest of Medium everyday’ month.
If ya like, ya can sponsor me. I’m raising money for a charity for poets who don’t know shit about poetry, and it makes them want to punch binmen and ice cream vendors. I know it’s quite a small charitable niche. But it’s one close to my heart.
So wish me luck, would ya? I need it. Join me if you wanna even.
There is one coming every day.
But it ain’t gonna be pretty because I feel less creative right now than RoboCop in a fucking pink swimsuit after a vial of GBH and fourteen Watermelon Bacardi Breezers.
But fuck it.
