Uh huh. First, you can hate me for using the word *HATE* in a blog title. I ain’t no nazi or anti-hater or alt-anything, nor do I rely on controversies of political statements or arguments. And let’s face it… that kind of dialectic seems to be all the rage these days. If I were that type of writer I’d probably get a $250,000 publishing advance from Simon & Schuster too; or be hiring ghosters to pound me some unpresidented, rogue-going memoirs; or forcing Kurt Vonnegut to bang on his coffin lid to bitch at me, “Hey, I told you once before. Stop that.”
Semicolons and NYT bestseller listicles aside, I’m again praising the wrongly roads of writing. Yes, that does have a wring:
“Why’d you tell like this when you could’ve shown like that?” Hate me.
The 50 gray greases of shading backstory? Hate me.
“That could’ve all been effective dialog…” So. Hate me.
“Consider your audience age group…” Hate me.
“But what genre are you trying to market across?” Hate me. Aisle 6.
“If only you’d created recognizable characters…” Yeah. Hate me.
Once upon a time, under a spreading chestnut, a tree. Hating me.
“There are no dark and stormy knights. Maybe soccer?” Goal. Hate me.
“You should flesh out the dystopian aspects…” No. Hate me.
“Make it more contemporary retro and…” Hate me. Again.
Darling fields alive with standing waves of gravure. Hated. ⓒ
“But no one gets these cultural references…” Not. Hate me.
“I’d stay away from such violent words…” Nouns. Hate me.
They were the best of mimes and the worst of mimes. (hatefully)
Yes, I stole that baby’s shoes. Never. Hate me.
“Fiction? Real? Surely this never happened…” Hate me. Again. Again.
“Too many notes. It’ll never be a hit.” Suspend me. Hate me.
“Blasphemy! You must capitalize these names!” Hate me. A cross, a fire.
“‘Fuck!’ he said, ‘One exclamation too many!'” Hate me!
Ashburying OK fields of great BJ-filled dicks. The Haight of electric hate.
Diversity, the last exits of Sunnybrook foundries. Hating me. Always.
“Tolkien was a genius. Have you read The Lard of…?” Hate. Me. And yourself.
The hysterectomies of proper. summer. writer. yawns. Hate. Fertilized.
Horrors, he said. Here’s Johnny. Marching home. Hate. A gazebo.
ARC: Macho Feminist Magic Aversion Therapy. Hate. The drag & daily.
“Queries: 7000 Macedonian agents with tails.” Hate. No reply.
There’s never been a good reason to fear literary failure. It’s a kind of declining and falling that will never stop, and usually better than anything labeled as the next big “new-thing-that-used-to-be-good!” cuz it’s never new, and definitely not good.
And by the way, Mr. Vonnegut, screw you; I didn’t go to college.