Brazen Self Promotional Pronouncements. N’ Shit.
“I am not one of those weak-spirited, sappy Americans who want to be liked by all the people around them. I don’t care if people hate my guts; I assume most of them do. The important question is whether they are in a position to do anything about it. My affections, being concentrated over a few people, are not spread all over Hell in a vile attempt to placate sulky, worthless shits.”
― William S. Burroughs
I guess it might be hard for writers, you know, when they write stuff and someone isn’t into it. It’s not hard for me, but then again I’m hardly a capital-W Writer. But I’m thinking more along the lines of fiction writers. The shit I’ve written, the books, my old ‘zine and this blog…it’s all just stuff from my life. Stories like when you sit around with your friends and tell stories- not necessarily making shit up stories.
So it’s kind of weird. I mean, putting stuff out that’s a part of you-thats a slice of your personal history, or where you’re at. Without the armor of being able to cop a “Oh I just made that shit up” plea. Cause then it’s not like someone is being a spectator critic and judging the merit of your work. They’re seeing the guts of you spread all over the page.
And some motherfuckers just aint gonna be feeling your gangster.
Personally I wouldn’t have it any other way. I mean, I have no desire to spin wholly fictitious yarns when I can just do the lazy thing and mine my whackaloon experiences for content.
I’m not saying there’s anything even slightly wrong with people who outright make up fabulous tales. I mean, fuck. I have one word for you: Jorge Luis Borges. Possibly my all time outright “I’mma totally make some shit up” writer. And like, he really made shit up. And made it more believable than mundane reality at that.
But the cats who really inspired the fuck out of me-Burroughs, Bukowski, Primo Levi, Jack Black, Mikhail Dyomin…and yeah, even like Henry Rollins-their stuff was/is so informed by and created from the warp and weft of their own lives, that even when making something up it’s moreso fictionalization. The old man Burroughs really was a fucking junkie. Bukowski really did drink like a pig and bed gnarly women. Primo Levi really did survive the Nazi’s attempted extermination of European Jewry. Dyomin did really do time in Russian prisons. Jack Black actually was a member of the Yegg brotherhood by all accounts. Rollins, he obviously did do some intense shit once or twice in the past thirty years.
And that’s the stuff that’s always inspired me the most. Just like when I was in the joint and the old heads would tell stories. Real life shit, or at least tales tall yet taken from real life.
So that’s what I write, stuff taken from my real life. And some folks just can’t deal with that shit. Like the chef I work for-we’re pals and we’ve worked together for a few years now. Besides being the Dude in Charge of The Kitchen, I consider him to be one of my friends and he feels the same. But I gave him a printed off copy of my first book and he just couldn’t handle it. He told me he’d never read anything with so much profanity, and that it sounded like some dope fiend sitting in a detox telling a story to the other junkies. This, of course, is exactly how it was supposed to sound. I didn’t tell him that, and we’re still pals and all. But, you know it’s true: Not everything is for everybody.
So time goes on, I do my second book and of course I’m doing the blogging thing and all. And my books, as well as my blog, well they aint the most popular shit on the internets. Which is fine with me, especially considering the absolute inane bullshit that is popular here in cyberia. I start to sort of pride myself in never topping 700 views in a month, and it pretty much rules having a really small blog cause on the occasion that I get comments or emails I actually get to spend time responding. If I had forty people to respond to it might become tedious, a hundred definitely so. Luckily I get ‘em one at a time. Fuck yeah. And I can say that because of that I’ve made some good friends out here in internetland.
Of course, my books aint best fucking sellers. I’ve sold a few. Few being the operative word in the most literal sense. I’ve also just sent beucoup copies out to anyone who wants to read them. Sometimes someone will like it and dialogue will spark. Which really, is the ultimate intent for me anyway. I write to communicate, not to produce some entertainment commodity.
But also, sometimes I’ll send my books and never hear nothin. Which is fine too, but I’d rather be trolled and told my writing sucks moose dung.
Ok, It’s really only happened once. Some university student in Ireland. Imagine me offending an Irishman. Fucking win. Suck my dick James Joyce.
Did I really just type that?
So yeah, this when it all comes down to it is just a promo for my latest book You’re going to Die Out There. You can get it at Smashwords and some other places for cheap. I’ve sold enough of these goddam things that I was able to buy my wife some physical books she wanted, and if I sell more I’ll probably buy a goddam jet ski or something. But anybody can just have a copy for free anyway. They’re ebooks, it aint like I’m hand stitching a thread binding on my contraband self published ‘zines from inside a prison cell these days.
And yes, I’ve done that. That will all be covered in my next book.