I had a dream last night where a man came to me and insulted what I write.
Told me it’s bullshit because it’s not really how I feel.
That’s bullshit, I told him. I write exactly how I feel. One of the things that writers have the ability to do is genuinely communicate what they think and feel, in the moment. Not all of them do that, but I do.
One of the last Gonzo writers with any sense of grammar and sentence structure.
In an age where everyone is just spitting out whatever thoughts pass through their bobble-heads at any given moment, substituting emotion for emoticons, abbreviating everything they possibly can, I have to hold on tight to what I do.
Criticism is welcome, but most of it can go fuck itself. If I don’t respect you as a writer or, at least, as an intellect, then I really don’t give a shit what you have to say about the quality of what I write. Everyone is entitled to an opinion – you can write in the comments – you can send me emails – but, more and more, I just don’t care what you have to say.
I’m a writer in a world where writing has gone to Hell. Finding good writing is like finding the water in a toilet full of piss. You know it’s there, sure…but the idea of isolating it from the nastiness surrounding it is wholly unpleasant.
Besides that, I study statistics. I know how few people read my more interesting blogs – I know that 80% of my viewership is looking for Taiwanese strip clubs and Filipino hookers – because this site is not immune to Toilet Bowl Syndrome, either.
But it doesn’t matter.
I don’t write for you.
I never did.
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