I had a great conversation with my aunt about half an hour ago. It’s eerie how spot on her discernment is for systems and industries. In this case, the storytelling industry.
I have no desire to share these insights with you because, you’ll think, PROVE IT. And there’s no way to prove the contrived bullshit is, contrived bullshit. It doesn’t matter why, it happens often enough that, yes- there is much work happening behind the scenes, off the camera. In between takes is where people in places of power decide who’s next to be inducted into the circle of successful, popular writers.
It’s so fucking fake that I can’t stand it. It’s this fairytale illusion that all well, everyone is happy, and if we aren’t, we bury that shit deep down and never reveal that we suffer. NEVER show that you’re actually weak, and fragile. You’re not allowed to have moments of discord, you loser… We won’t allow it…
I also can’t stand the hecklers. Telling me I’m a worthless drug user, isn’t constructive criticism. It’s pure trash talk. It’s the equivalent of taking a shit on someone’s doorstep, then running away like a fucking coward. Why? Because the person who took the shit on the doorstep KNOWS, that if he were to get caught, he might wind up in the fucking ICU for a fractured skull and broken bones, damaged organs. Because if he gets caught, he’s going to get knocked the fuck out.
Hecklers KNOW that online, they ABSOLUTELY will not be knocked the fuck out because of shit talking someone else. Odds are no one is going to hunt down a heckler and fuck them up. That’d require traveling to where ever the person lives. Then, strike this person down when no one is a witness to assaulting the shit talker. It’s too much fucking effort, and it’s just not worth most peoples time. Thus, the shit talkers live to talk shit another day. And so on and so on. Yeah, fuck that. If I’m not on Twitter, it’s a non-issue. Speak no, hear no, see no… That’s what makes the most sense at this point in my life.
Step away from the circus. Leave the golden poison alone for awhile.
Now it’s time to work on fiction stories. Read as much as I can each day. And live my life without stressing trivial shit, that may appear to be significant, because I’m too sensitive to bullshit. Similar to an extreme allergic reaction, bullshit fucks me up in such a way, that I just can’t put myself around all the bullshit on Twitter, anymore. The bullshit, it exhausts my energy. The bullshit is a thief that steals my time. With less time, I can’t and won’t accomplish my goals as an actual writer who produces and delivers on a regular, frequent basis.
I’m not okay with this. I give a damn about being a writer who produces and delivers on a regular, frequent basis. That fucking matters to me, I give many fucks about that.
I don’t give any fucks about being accepted or validated. Because as I said earlier in this post, it’s all fickled. There is no rhyme or reason to why someone suddenly is a starting player in the community of writers and readers. How do I know this? Because the majority of you aren’t that much better at this than I am. Also, those who are really fucking good at this, for some reason, aren’t near as adored as I think they deserve to be. So, fuck- they probably have passing moments where this is a bummer realization.
However, focus on the positives. Be grateful for those who do adore you. For me, I focus in on the amazing reviews that I received for my debut fiction book. I also focus on my time as a writer back in 2011. How I was adored by the head of the creative writing department, and a major door was opened. I won’t focus on the fact that that door closed, and is now locked, at least that particular door. That doesn’t matter. What matters is I was killing it like a savage, for a certain amount of time. To me this means I can kill it again, will be that savage I was, except in the present tense. I really am this person, this writer. I earned the approval and acceptance of someone who was and still is in a position of power. I did have a shameless plug, once, and was about to be as successful, if not more, than I’d always dreamed of.
Now’s the time to be that person. Fuck you and the horse you ride on, you fuck. I’m more savage and more intense, with weapons so nasty you wanna run and hide because you’re afraid. How dare I take your fans. It’s inevitable. You want me to quit, to give up, so that you can stay cozy in your position of power. You like that throne you sit on, don’t you? I bet you do. You’ll do everything and anything necessary to never leave that throne, to remain a constant in the community. Whatever it takes. By any means necessary. Shit, you’re so right. Time I do the same. I’ll do whatever it takes. By any and all means necessary will I be the writer I am. It’s not that difficult. It takes lots of hard work. The means necessary to succeed is the work itself. So really, it has nothing to do with either of us as people. Well, at least not as creatives. Fuck you, and Twitter, for being the kind of people who are so kind and supportive. Fuck you, contrivers of bullshit. You warp reality to suit your needs. Must be nice to be a sneaky fuck, a wolf in sheeps clothing. But I’m a bear. And guess what? I’m a really massive, giant alpha bear. I’ll fucking tear your wolf ass to shreds. I’ll even crunch and digest your scrawny little wolf bones. And I’ll eat your fucking head while you watch from the nether realm and lament that you were, just a fucking wolf. Turns out the bear is better. Stronger, mightier, more fierce that you could ever possibly be as a fucking little wolf. You prey on those who aren’t predators, because it’s easy, so easy to feast on those who are easy prey. And my Jesus are most of these humans easy prey.
Thing is, I’m the kind of bear who preys on predators. I’m a wolf eater. Wolves eat sheep, I eat wolf and sheep that wolf ate.
Fuck you. Fuck your family and friends. You have no power over me, anymore. I don’t need to be miserable because you pretend to be content. I can tell, you’re miserable too. So long as you have me to act as the scapegoat, you’ll continue to succeed. Shit, that’s not going to happen anymore. Never again will I be you’re fucking scapegoat, I’m that one bear that you just had to try and suffocate to death. Attack me with silence. Ignore me. Fuck you. You can go ahead and suck my dick. I love having my dick sucked. And if you don’t wanna, that’s fine. Go fuck yourself and fuck off you miserable wolves. Keep close together, wolves. I’m coming for you, with my art. I’m going to spread you apart, keep you from connecting. Cause your illusion to fold like the cheap deck of cards it’s always been. Through my natural essence I’ll subtly reveal how awful you are, in reality. That you’re not kind, you don’t really care, and that you’re a fucking phony boloney liar. Just another wolf running around with other wolves, slaughtering harmless, dumb, beta animals. Slay on. I aim to slay you all. Suck. My. Dick. Or fuck off.
Philip MotherFucking Webb