How To Become A Breakout Kindle Novelist
If you want to become a breakout Kindle novelist,
turn off the television,
go for a walk,
find a leprechaun,
and suck his dick.
At first, it seems rather pointless,
like sucking on whiskey-soaked potato,
but after a while you'll notice
the leprechaun isn't even there.
It's just you...sucking.
You may resolve to stop sucking,
but since when did you give a shit?
It gradually begins to occur to you
that you've sucked for so long
it's second nature;
it's what you do.
Then you remember a time
when you didn't suck;
you were just happy to be alive.
You may decide to go back to those days
when you weren't such a miserable asshole.
And when you find yourself in such place,
Rest assured there will always be
someone in your life to give you shit
about the grammar,
who gets off on being pontificating,
who goes home and chuckles to his wife,
"I sure told that son-of-a-bitch about his commas!"
Grin if ya need to,
give the miserable fuck his/her
where they get to feel good about themselves
and congratulate themselves
on being superior.
It's a service you're providing.
Do you have something to say?
Something that needs to be said?
Something that hasn't been said already?
Don't tell me some dumb shit
how the hero turns into the villain at end.
Ain't nobody have time for that.
Everything you write
needs to be a love letter.
The kind of love letter ya write
in high school,
when you're scared to death
your love will actually read it.
And you'll be found out.
Naked for first time.
So much time wasted
trying to be pretty
trying to be poetic
trying to be artful
what the fuck do you have to say?
Tell me as briefly as you can.
Don't try to impress.
Raw is best.
Quit trying to make us love you.
We're never going to get you
and we're never going to like you,
especially if you get rich and famous
doing this stupid shit.
We'll say "that asshole was never any good."
And "How the fuck did he make it?"
But we'll still buy everything you write,
if only to point out how much you really suck
and what a miserable fraud you are.
Quit trying to hide the fact
that you're a humongous fucking weirdo.
We already know about your sex toys,
your drawer filled with vibrating dildos,
and, yes, I think I speak for everyone
when I say we are, of course, appalled,
but at least you're a little interesting.
Quit trying to pass yourself as normal,
because you're a poet for fuck's sake.
Spare me the metaphor,
the "oh, how my love's like a red, red..."
How does it make you feel that we've all
been jerking off to the same flower
for 500 years?
delusions of grandeur.
Maybe you gave up the bottle,
go to meetings,
You're still weird.
And you always will be.
But now at least you're ready
Write me something that sucks.
I promise you we'll all hate it.