"Not All Writers Write, But Some Do" by an Online Friend

"Not All Writers Write, But Some Do"

(for Clement and Rodney but not Cycic)

I.
A writer writes as often as a writer can, but he often neglects to do so because sometimes all there is to write about is the writerly struggle to figure out what exactly to write.

II.
When a writer neglects to write, he'll still consider himself a writer and arrogate to himself writerly qualities. Some of these qualities include (but are not restricted to) an inexplicable passion for bar fights and bus rides, as well as an obnoxious habit of yelling obscenities from a third story apartment window or hurling orange peels at a passing bag lady.

III.
A writer will promise to write sooner than later, then postpone all writing in order to masturbate. When he's done masturbating, he'll begin procrastinating. When he's done procrastinating, he'll begin to think about starting an outline, then put off writing it for a few months. Once he's ready to start thinking about writing his outline again, he'll push it to a later date and likely masturbate.

IV.
When a writer isn't writing, he's probably driving, or eating chips on the sofa. Either way, he isn't writing. He's sitting. But when he's writing, he's also sitting, which is why he often confuses writing with driving. When he reaches his destination after a long drive, he'll often fool himself into believing that he's actually gotten some writing done.

V.
When a writer isn't driving, he probably isn't writing. He may be thinking about writing, but he's easily distracted by the bag lady that passes by his apartment every day. He'll probably devise a plan to kill her, so that he can then write about it. But he'll quickly realize that another writer had written the same story and called it Crime and Punishment.

VI.
When a writer realizes that he simply can't bring himself to write, he'll do one of two things: emulate a prodigious, celebrated writer of the Western literary canon or jump from his third story window in despair, only to land on the bag lady who'll break his fall and be killed forthwith.

VII.
When a bag lady breaks the fall of a suicidal writer and dies forthwith, the writer will then be free to write about the experience without ever being suspected of ripping off Dostoyevsky. The experience is now authentically his, and all that's left for him to do is write about it.

VIII.
When it comes time for a writer to write about his authentic experience, he'll then struggle with form. He'll have trouble settling on a narrative technique and even switch back and forth between the first person point of view and third person omniscient, at which point he'll grow discouraged and give up writing---but only temporarily because he still views himself as a writer. Not just any writer, but the next Dostoyevsky.

IX.
When a writer considers himself the next Dostoyevsky and hasn't written more than three paragraphs of material, he's in for an unbearably tough time. This is the point that either makes or breaks a writer, and he is more defined by what he doesn't write than what he does write.

X.
When a writer is defined by what he doesn't write, he chooses to write only when he wants to, which is never. But he will perpetually think about writing and being perceived and lauded as a writer---a great writer in fact, who didn't have to lift a finger, or waste his breath, just pretend.

Cop Light

She got ran through by the Brit marines. They pulled her in with their Apollo physiques and documentary accents. She told me she felt ashamed. I told her “I am not a puritan and I can’t say if it was wrong what you did or what they did.” I said that so she didn’t think I was judging her, if she thought that, I think I would loose her. She told me it was wrong because “none of them loved her.” She said she was “a joke to them.” They were soulless I knew that much, they were begging chick mouths with out stomachs, bottomless pits of wanting and taking, never giving, pure psychopathic Id. She thought talking to me would patch up her souls hymen where her innocents was leaking out. She wants me to be a little boy, brother and a father, the clean male relationships. I thought of my black Tom cat. When the mother of his kitten died he let the kittens suckle on his empty nipples. I am an empty nipple that cant fill your stomach. All day I tie noses in my skull hanging every memory of human road kill, and floating bodies I fished out of the drink. Why would I help her get her dignity back just so she can loose it again down the road. It’s good its gone early. I should toughen her up. But she looks like a kid, I want to be soft and silly around kids. Her mom would fuck for drugs while she was in the bed. She made me think of my momma’s eyes swollen shut Vaseline tears covered the top of her blue black brown face, her cotton filled cheeks, she drank blood it dripped dried on the side. She couldn’t express here self her face was stretched to the limit. Cops took pictures, dad incoherently denied unrelated matters, Black Sabbath continued to played in the back ground. Cop lights danced off blinds, broken glass Moms face, I was glad she couldn't see me, I think she would have been embarrassed. I can’t stand embarrassing scenes in moves, I change the channel until there over. My dad was now in a cop car banging his head against the window his moth foamed with spit his unblinking eyes glared at me, the flexi glass looked like it was going to give. If his eyes had hands he would of squeezed my head until it popped like a zit. Then they all went away mom, dad, cops. It was me in the house alone. I watched a get smart marathon. No one came home, I didn’t go to school. I went to the library looked at photography books with tits in them, I turned the page and I saw a guy rolling in shit with his dick tied to his feet. People were standing all around him. I learned art is a shocking ritual. The deference between religious ritual and art is that religion summons old gods and demons, art makes new ones, fiction only moments before. Bums came to the library to sleep, masturbate and read weird shit like genealogy books. Maybe they are looking for their name next to someone, anyone, somewhere to go and say with hands out “its me!” Her hands were out I took one, and said “kid what ever you need I will try to do.” “I don’t know much about family but I will treat you like I think one should be, you can tell me when I am wrong.” She didn’t say anything she most likely though I was full of shit, but I think I meant it.

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