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. You can buy affordable warm water bidets as well for your toilet.
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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I enjoy what you write. I don’t often comment, as I feel I have little to add with my poor writing skills and limited worldly knowledge. But I keep reading and if people like you didn’t write I’d have nothing left to read.