the riptides of rebellion and the salvation of savagery

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Alliteration aside…or not, that is up to you, toads of the post-modern landscape…this is going to be about me swinging back to JUST BEING ME.

I have lost my way. As a writer, as a human, as a human writer. I’m more focused on what can sell or does sell or doesn’t sell at all, fuck it god damn it fuck…than on actually writing stuff. Stuff and things. The things that catch my attention. Instead of focusing on market trends and just how much to blog and share and how to infiltrate writer’s groups and not come off as creepy or aggressive bitchy salesperson…I should instead glory in figuring out how a giant squid can devour an entire village of lesbian giraffes. [I made that up. I’m not actually working on a tale or play about a giant labial-ish squid, in the manner of Cthulhu, set to devour a village full of prickly quadrupeds who are full of the love that dare not speak its name. Mm. Mm!! I could call it–Jesus Sends a Squid, and then market it to fundie Christian markets. Or not.]

I need to stop trying to be commercial or whatever that is.  Stop being hesitant. Self-censoring. Hesitant.  JUST BE ME, MYSELF AND I, HELLO, SHUT THE DOOR, GET OUTTA HERE, DUH. Just fucking write. Stop worrying about how to sell it or market it or get it into the correct slot!  [Except realistically I can’t do that. I don’t have a trust fund. I’m not in a Hallmark movie. Reality never bothered me much before so why start actually facing shit now?]

Gosh, will this fit into the PG family-friendly horror category my publisher wants or more toward kitchen sink post-apocalyptic anti-modernist comedy stylings that seem to be trending right now?

No!!

Just write. Write. Let it splatter out like hot shit from a goose’s saucy backside. [As they poop a lot. A lot. As in they have lots and lots of poop and it splatters.] Stop caring about things like dragging in pennies every few years for something I’ve put out there! So what if my family has written me off as a good argument for an abortion. Just write.

If you don’t know already, I’m not talking to the collective you. I am ripping into myself in a sort of pep talk. I am trying to get some inner riptides to savage me. Yeah, I went there. I had to find a way to give that romance novel bodice ripper compound title up there some sort of legitimacy.  I’m trying to rip the scabs off and let the inner infected fluids fly out as they will. Splatter and splash as they will. Yippee kye aye!! Stop trying to be something you’re not, kiddo!! Stop trying to please everyone with your bowl of limp wilted lettuce offerings. Stop trying to produce prose that slinks apologetically about like a whipped canine. Get busy writing or take up sculpting!

Gol dang it, could you be any more precious and fragile?

I could be. Oh yes, I could be.

For those of you who might be confused, this is where I pretend I pretend I don’t actually have inner voices talking to me all day long. It’s cute. It’s probably getting stale by now. It has a whiff of cutesy stale crackers by now. Okay!

Well, don’t. End this buckaroo burbling and bumble off…BINT.

Funny. Bint. Ha ha. Urr urr urr. Too bad I can’t harness you to a wagon and turn you into cash.

What? Was that a crack about how we’re not pulling our weight?

Kinda. If the shoe fits.

Maybe you should try writing something people actually want to read. Try that! Why has that not occurred to you?

Like what? I am open to suggestions. Hit me. Power point me. Note card it and do a speech at the podium.

Are we actually having this fight in public for the one person who actually bothers to read this bumblesnatching burblefluff?

Why not? Posting my actual work seems to be a real snort-and-ignore.

A snore?? Bwha ha ha ha. Bwha ha ha. There’s more laughter coming at your expense. For the rest of the day.

Thanks, as always, for your non-help. You do realize we’re all in this together?

Hey, we can migrate to other brains and infest them any time we wish. We’re imaginary!! Maybe you should get back to being precious and writing creativity checks you can’t cash.

Oh fuck you.

That’s the spirit! You go, girl!! Go write something good for once. Don’t worry, you’ll get all tough and don’t-care and then come right back to wah wah wah can’t write can’t write wah wah wah!

That was just mean.

Oh we’re sorry. Do you want a donut? Hey…

I’ll end that there. Because why be self-indulgent when you can be off writing about a giant squid attacking a village full of talking same-sex giraffes?

PS– Hi. Hi there. It’s the day after this, um, we’ll call it a post and not a mental breakdown…Yours truly has, indeed, tackled the lesbian giraffe village attacked by a giant squid possibly sent by Jesus. Apparently, Sunday afternoons is when my short story gears grind into motion. I plan to clean said short story up and submit it. I might even do a series of tales about my beloved, now, to me only at the moment, characters from Deadlion’s End, who live along Beasthead Bay. Always Be Hustling. ABH.

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