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Yesterday was just a warm-up. Think of that post as a kind of lube job. Just softening the passageway so I can more easily cram this wad of broken Christmas ornaments (all ceramic! shardalicious!) up there.
Yesterday, you were a volleyball. Soaring through the air. Sun behind you. Blue sky above. Today, I’m going to spike the volleyball into the nose of your mother.
Yesterday, I opened my arms for a hug. And today, as you come in to collect your love, I’m going to suckerpunch your junk.
Yesterday –
Ooh, sorry. I was getting into a groove there. Let’s just get right into it.
Reality check: you should quit this whole “writer” shit right now, mister or missy.
Seriously. Give it up. It’s just a bullshit pipe dream. Don’t believe me?
No, Seriously, You’re Probably Not That Good
It’s just you and me. We’re just talking. Like two pals. We’ll link arms and skip la-la-la down the meadow path, and as we do so, we’ll be frank and speak our minds, and so let me speak mine: you’re probably a mediocre writer. How do I know? Okay, I don’t. I’m not Kreskin over here. But if I had to put smart money down, that smart money would laugh and call you names.
I arrive at this because most people who think themselves writers, or who want to be writers, are basically shitty. Hell, just bop around the Internet. Oh, the waste of worlds and words! I’m being generous when I suggest that only 10% of it is actually good. With a wide margin of “mediocre” (40%?) and a wider margin of “on par with testicular cancer” (50%). Go, flit around the web for 20 minutes, see what kind of writing you turn up in the dank dark deep of the net. Commas rape periods. Run-on sentences pull a train on other run-on sentences. Good ideas are held down and forced to eat the scuzz-covered boots of bigger, badder, stupider ideas. Quality content dies crying in the dark while an army of moronity dances into the light, sans shirt, shoes, and any modicum of good sense.
Here’s the problem. Any asshole can think himself a writer. Not any asshole can think himself, say, a filmmaker, or an aerospace engineer. I mean, you can try that, but there exists a nice barrier to entry. “Oh, I don’t know how to operate this camera. Oh well!” or, “Now that I’m here, helping build the new space shuttle, I have to wonder — what the fuck am I doing? Is this a wrench? Is that math?” But any dickbrain with a pen and a piece of paper can scribble some squiggles and call himself a writer. “I wrote a poem!” That’s not a poem, it’s a miscarriage of language. Stick to postcards, Special Jack.
So, let’s just go ahead and safely assume that you fall somewhere in the “ball cancer” to “mediocre” range of writing. Which makes you and your career hopeless, if only because you are lost in a sea of other talentless shitbirds all squawking and complaining for a taste of fish. Which leads me to…
Oh, And You’re Making It Hard For The Real Writers
Time to run through a brief scenario.
An editor or agent has a pile on her desk. It is a query pile, or a slushpile, or whatever.
She has to go through this pile to find publishable or representable material. Most of this material is toxic garbage. Which makes this process the equivalent of picking apart a hunk of poop to look for a precious peanut or Froot Loop — your nasty nonsense has gummed up the process. It has clogged the pipes!
You’re literally standing in the way of better — “real” — writers. You’re shoulderblocking them and tripping them. Ironically, it doesn’t help you at all; it just hurts them. Your septic infection of a novel is a needless obstacle. It’s like you basically walked into a nice person’s home and upended a bunch of trash bags in front of her bedroom door. You accomplished nothing outside of keeping a good writer down.
You’re a speedbump! A greased-up doorknob.
You are bird-and-pig flu.
Oh, and thinking about it, you’re probably part of why books cost as much as they do. Kind of makes sense, doesn’t it? Publishing houses have to hire people to actively sort out the steaming, stenchworthy effluence that is your writing. And, given that the large percentage of what they receive is exactly that, that’s a lot of paid hours. That’s money going toward a needless cause. As a result, book prices rise. So, not only are you hurting other writers, but you’re actively spitting in the eye of the book-buying public. You are such a jerk.
Plus, You Have A Better Chance Of Dying In An Accident Featuring Syphilitic Circus Elephants
I know. You’re a writer, not an aerospace engineer, but I think a little basic math is in order. Consider this:
Around 175,000 books are published every year in the United States. Sounds good, right?
Now consider that a publisher generally only publishes one to two percent of what’s submitted. That leaves roughly 98% of the work that goes unpublished.
That’s 3.5 million books.
That’s 3.5 million writers, and that’s only those writers that decided to submit this time around. A lot more are waiting in the wings.
Plus, you have to write the book, which takes months or years.
Plus, you have to worry about whether or not your book will sell.
Dude. Dude. The odds are stacked against you. I know my math is simplistic, but trust me, that math errs on the optimistic side. You got next to no shot. Never mind the fact you probably fall into the categories noted above (somewhere between “mediocre” and “cancerous”), which basically punches your odds in the back of the head and then drowns them in a scum-topped pond.
And I Bet You’re Equal Parts “Crazy” And “Delusional”
I’ll make this one short, but you’re probably like one of those guys who thinks he’s a superhero. “I’m bulletproof!” You’re not. You can’t fly. Get off that ledge. You’re no hero, you’re just a weird depressive lost to delusion. I mean, c’mon, a lot of the people who want to be writers are just bubbling and babbling for attention like squalling, colicky babies. You’re probably nuts. You’re probably in need of counseling. You’re probably delusional. The chances are good. Recognize this and climb out of the pool before you pee in it.
Besides, You Don’t Have The Stomach For This
Seriously, it’s just you and me talking now. Nobody else can hear us. I’ll even whisper.
This job sucks. You don’t want it. You might think, “Jeez, Chuck, but you’re doing it.” Yes, but I’ve been doing it for 11-ish years now, and only really saw meaningful success after a decade’s worth of attempts. That’s a third of my life thus far. That’s ludicrous. What was I thinking? Further, that’s me beating the odds. Your chances are slim — frankly, I took one of the spots in line, and now you’re going to have to find your own.
You don’t have the stomach for this. It’s not your fault. In fact, it’s perfectly normal.
First, it’s lonely. You sit here, all sad and pathetic in front of the PC, typing at nobody. You cry a little. You glumly play with yourself. You eat some pudding. You drink. You throw up the pudding. It’s a journey into the heart of alienation and isolation.
Second, the pay’s for shit. You’re not really able to support yourself. A first time novelist doesn’t even get paid a lot. Writers are all broke-ass delinquents. We have one pot to use for cooking soup and pissing in. Which means we’re eating pee-pee soup like, all the time. I have one pair of pants because I cannot afford another, and this pair of pants is unmercifully caked with my snot and tears (oh, and and dried scabs of pudding).
Third, writing is actual work. You have to have a solid work ethic to do this job in any meaningful way, and that’s not why you got into this. You got into writing because it’s fun and creative and whimsical and la-dee-dippity-dah. But this shit is hard. It is much easier to restock milk at Target, or deliver mail. Let’s be honest, your work ethic is probably dogshit. You thought you could get into writing because it wasn’t work. Ha-ha, I mock you for that. We all do. Which leads me to –
Fourth, you’ll get no respect. Nobody respects the writer. Everyone thinks you’re making a dipshit career choice because, drum roll please, you are. They look at you the same way they look at a 12-year-old boy who tries to eat a fistful of paint chips he peeled off the wall. You’re the dog who got his head stuck in between railing posts. You’re a keening lackwit and everybody knows it. Jesus, even other writers won’t respect you. Look at the way I’m talking to you right now. Does this sound like respect? If I could slap you in the face, I would, that’s how little I respect you. I would steal your things and seduce your mother if I had half-a-chance, and then I would take your unpublished manuscript and I’d eat it because that’s all its good for: fiber.
How’s that for respect?
You cannot hack this.
It’s Easier To Give Up And Give In
Be like Ned Beatty in Deliverance.
Hike your man-panties down, and squeal like the sow that you are, and get it over with. Give up. Give in. Stop resisting. Don’t move and it won’t hurt.
I give you permission to give up. Okay? There. You have it. You didn’t need it, but now you got it. It’s okay that this isn’t for you. Seriously. Not everybody gets to be what they want to be. Not everybody can be an astronaut or a cowboy. As the saying goes, the world needs its janitors, too. No shame in that. We’re all doing our part. It’s just that — well, “writer” really isn’t your part.
I think you’ll find a great deal of freedom in realizing this. It’ll be a grand epiphany. A sudden unburdening, as if you’ve lived beneath a suit made of live pigeons all your life. And now the pigeons are free, taking wing. You’re 50 pounds lighter, like Alton Brown. Plus, pigeons smell. Nasty creatures. Now they’re gone!
And now you’re liberated, free to find another path. A path more suitable.
I will not accept payment for this favor I’ve done you.
I do accept gifts, though. I really need new pants, for one. Also: I’d love an alpaca. Maybe a breeding pair, if you can manage it. I mean, I need to find something to help bolster my Sad Writing Pennies so I can pay my mortgage this month, and I figure — the alpaca pyramid scheme is the next big thing for me. Yay!
What? You Don’t Believe Me?
Wait, whuh? You think I’m joshing you? This ain’t no snowjob. I’m serious. You probably shouldn’t be a writer.
Unless.
Unless.
Did you read this, get angry, and silently (or even out loud!) tell me to go fuck myself?
Good for you.
That means one of two things.
One, you’re a stubborn shithead.
Two, you’re confident in your talents.
Either are good enough prerequisites to being a writer, so that’s a good sign for you. You’re probably going to be fine. Sure, you might just be an idiot, but if you’re so self-deluded, then even your most pathetic of effort will be scratched off in the giant “win column” that is your brain, so who cares? You’re bliss-tarded.
Still, be advised, don’t think I was kidding about those things above. I’m serious as a pulmonary embolism. But you’re probably going to get through it. Just hold the bucket tight to your head, and keep trying to bash that wall down.
Then again, did you hit one or two of those points and kind of half-shrug and say, “Well, that is true…?” Did you?
Were you beset by the Nibbling Wombats of Doubt?
Are you Sad Face?
Then maybe, just maybe, writing really isn’t for you. Out of all seriousness, that is okay. No harm, no foul. I’m not a cartoonist right now because I didn’t have what it took to be a cartoonist. Maybe you’re not a writer because you don’t have what it takes to be a writer. Find your path. Make a choice. Do what you should be doing.
It’s time to decide. I don’t envy your decision.
About The Author
ChuckWendig
Chuck Wendig is a novelist, a screenwriter, and a freelance penmonkey. He's written too much. He should probably stop. Give him a wide berth, as he might be drunk and untrustworthy. He currently lives in the wilds of Pennsyltucky with a wonderful wife and two very stupid dogs. He is represented by Stacia Decker of the Donald Maass Literary Agency.
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- At #terribleminds today I'm asking about favorite characters and other fictiony bits. Great comments so far. http://bit.ly/cG7occ
- Too many mutha uckers. Uckin with my shee.
- When I was, I dunno, 10, I drew some comic called "Force 10: Ten Diagrams Of The Stinger." WTF? Ahh, the crap I'm unearthing.
- Favorite thing, though: someone printed an oooold short story of mine and snail mailed (!) it to me with the angriest commentary ever seen.
- Unearthing an unholy onslaught of horrors from my past: a "novella" written when I was 12? Eeeesh.
- Answering The Trio: Riddle Me This, Writers And Readers July 31, 2010
- Staple Your Rejections To Your Chest And Wade Into Battle With Them As Your Armor July 30, 2010
- Pull The Trigger On These Trigger Words July 29, 2010
- Painting With Shotguns XLVI July 28, 2010
- Who Wants A Fat, Meaty Hunk Of Terribleminds? July 27, 2010
36 Responses and Counting...
Go fuck yourself. I’m a writer.
“You’re the dog who got his head stuck in between railing posts.”
It’s sentences like this which keep you beating the odds.
(Something just moved on my desk for no apparent reason–weird…)
This piece ended with more useful power, more kinetic energy than the last shout out against the Cloggerhead writers, in my opinion. More like a gruff, gin-soaked coach talking to his Badnews Bears. That sentiment was present in the last piece, but this one took a similar theme, shoved it into the pencil sharpener of constructivism and jabbed it in the eye of the net, not just for the 90%, but for all.
K
Will: Excellent.
Keith: Today, I am sadly not gin-soaked. Nor last night. Soon again, I shall brine myself in gin. (Also: Are we talking Russian Constructivism here? I’ll take Soviet propaganda posters, sure.)
– c.
I like fish.
And I am a stubborn shithead.
And I am by no means excellent or operating under the delusion that I am. All I can do is keep doing it until I am.
Go fuck yourself.
I bathe in your spite! I shampoo my hair with your stubbornness.
Oh, more of how the odds are against you and will punch you in the kidneys given half-a-chance …
http://dir.salon.com/story/books/feature/2004/03/22/midlist/print.html
– c.
But you said this was going to be a cheery post! With clapping and cheers and Jimmy Dean Sausages!
*cries and runs home*
…
Actually I haven’t read it yet, but will at some point during the day!
Nicely done. Your pair of alpaca-wool pants are in the mail.
Pair of paints IS in the mail? Um, I mailed your friggin trousers.
I long to feel the warm embrace of alpacas.
…
I mean, and their wool.
– c.
Wait, you told me we had two pots. Not one, two of them. Of course I’ve never actually seen them together at the same time. Dammit. Well, congratulations on your fun sleight of hand trickery and thanks a lot for apparently seven years of pee pee soup.
You know what I can’t decide?
I can’t decide whether you should live or die.
Oh, you’ll probably go to Heaven, so please don’t hang your head and cry.
No wonder why my heart is dead inside – cold & hard & petrified.
So lock the doors & close the blinds, we’re goin’ for a ride!
(… sorry about that, Scissor Sisters)
*ROTFLMAO!* Go fuck yourself six ways to Sunday. *LOL*
I am a stubborn (hey, Taurus, born that way) shithead. (And proud to admit it.)
I am confident in my talents.
Ah, but the third point, and perhaps even more important, is I decided to play the game by a different set of rules than the average, “I waaaaaannnnaaaa seeeeee my book in priiiiint!” writer. I decided okay, NY contract would be nice and all, but hey, why not actually get PAID to write instead of waiting for years to see a cent. I submitted to smaller indie presses.
Guess what? I get paid. I’m not Stephen King, but I don’t have to get a second job asking if you want fries with that, either.
And yes, I’ve been cutting my writing chops since high school *mumble* years ago. (Double your time and add five or so years.) I wrote non-fiction, including freelance journalism, for several years before I could finally transition to full-time fiction.
I agree with a goodly chunk of your advice though. The problem is, so many people read a book, say, “Oh, I can write that!” and most of them cannot. Some of them COULD, IF they decided to take some basic writing courses to learn why using was/were in every sentence is a bad, bad idea. Or if they would actually proofread their writing before submitting it.
I didn’t just wake up, write a book, and sell it. I am writing (or editing or doing promo) an average of twelve hours a day. I can’t whine that I don’t feel like writing today, let’s go for a walk. If I have to have a manuscript in to a publisher, and I have a blank screen, something entertaining better show up on that screen in the form of text.
I think I have an upper hand on many writers because of my non-fiction background. (I played around with my fiction since my teen years, but I never seriously pursued getting it published, although I DID seriously work on learning valuable self-editing skills in the interim.) I can have a publisher put out a call for a story and within an hour or two, I have an idea. I don’t sacrifice my story or my writing just to bang something out, but years of working on tight deadlines taught me to think about writing in a different way, and many part-time and wannabe fiction writers can’t do that because they haven’t learned that skill.
What size alpaca pants you want? Sorry, all I have is neon-green yarn. Hope that suits your complexion.
Pfft. Why should I tell you to fuck yourself? Obviously, this advice was meant for someone else, so go fuck yourself already.
You people are all so surly. I cannot imagine why you’d be so rude. I mean, showing up here and telling me to go fuck myself in all manner of ways? Ooof. That’s hard. I don’t know what prompted — *someone hands him a paper* — whuh? Oh. Oh! Right, right. I told you to tell me that. Hrm.
Michelle: Actually, it’s worse for you, because I’ve been feeding you second hand pee pee soup. That hobo I keep in the basement? I let him use the piss-slash-soup pot only *after* I’m done with it, and that’s usually when I give you your soup. So. Mmmmyeah.
Josh: Are you telling me I should listen to the Scissor Sisters?
Lesli: That is very exciting, and in many ways the path I’ve taken. I’ve made a not unreasonable living being a freelance writer, and hope to continue that course into the foreseeable future. Good on you! That said, you write *twelve* hours a day?! Holy shit. You are some kind of Evil Writing Machine sent from the future.
De: That’s the spirit! If I hand you a snowball made of ice, will you throw it at my head? Perfectly acceptable!
– c.
I still love you Chuck.
p.s. Go fuck yourself.
That’s a mixed message, John, and mixed messages make Baby Jesus cry.
– c.
Everybody’s gotta shove the dipstick all the way down into the reality crankcase. Sucker comes out dry, take a goddamn hint already. I’m keeping the alpaca pants, though. My balls are finally experiencing the bliss only my alpaca-slipper-clad tootsies have known before.
Chuck,
*turns and shows size sixteen ass and smacks it*
I didn’t get that junk in my trunk from spending twelve hours a day on my elliptical machine, that’s for sure. Eh, occupational hazard is what I chalk it up to. *LOL*
I’m also a speed typist with a caffeine addiction. I was going to do Nano this year but I was too busy writing to write. I churned out over 40k words on a manuscript…LAST WEEK. (That’s not counting the writing and editing I did for the whole month of November.) Since my first fiction book was published on 8/8/08 (love those numbers!) I’ve had *kicking off shoes to count on toes* nineteen releases (most of those 35k or larger, a few of them over 100k, two were only 10k shorts) and I have two more under contract and currently in the editing pipe at two different publishers. I’ve got four more currently in various stages of almost-completion (meaning they are quickly approaching the final-draft-can-submit-to-publisher stage), and probably a dozen more in various stages of semi-completion. Not counting the ideas bouncing around and screaming at me to write them.
This IS my evil day job. The only reason I could do this was because I did the non-fiction first, made money at that, and then my husband changed jobs to one where I had the luxury of pulling back from my non-fiction a little and taking a pay cut to focus on my fiction. And now my fiction is paying. And since I’m looking at him retiring in approximately two years, yes, I feel justified mainlining Starbucks into an artery every morning so I can make sure by the time he does retire I don’t have to kick him back out the door into a job where he’d have to ask if you want fries with that. LOL
Sorry, holy run-on sentence Batman.
It’s absolutely hard work. I work harder and longer now than I ever did working for someone else, and I used to own my own business that wasn’t writing-related, so I know hard work and long hours.
But *whispering* you forgot to tell them one very vital thing when you crushed their souls–writing is the EASY part of the job. Editing and self-promotion are a total bitch in heat (in the bad, baaaad way) compared to writing.
I could sit and write all day long and be the happiest woman on the face of this freaking planet except those picky editors make me edit (and several have told me I’m an EASY edit for them, so I can only imagine the hell their lives are *shudder*) and publishers expect me to actually talk about my books. *LOL*
I love watching newbie author faces when they say how hard it was to write their book and I laugh my ass off so hard I have to change my pants. Buttercup, writing is a cinch compared to the rest of it. *LOL*
Great.
I will go put in an application at McDonalds. At least they’ll appreciate my endless toil and dedication to burger crafting. Thank you for crushing my dreams.
kthxbai.
Points for “burger crafting.”
Lesli: Right. These days, so much falls to the author — it goes well beyond the writing, to be sure.
Dan: I’d tell you to stop bogarting the alpaca pants, but shit, I don’t blame you.
– c.
Don’t go fuck yourself Chuck! Reality can be hard. Reality hits you with a sledgehammer wright in the face. Or in the balls. Your choice. But then again, I’ve read the post and though: “Thanks Mr Wendig for making us see through the illusion.”
This was not made (well, maybe, it’s Chuck after) to destroy us, but only to make aspiring writers that writing isn’t an easy job and prepare to fight. And hell, if I ever want to make a living out of it, I think I’ll have to fight harder then you!
Clarification: I live in Quebec. People around here say that nothing good can come from here. Well, Quebec is the birth place of Cirque du Soleil, Celine Dion and Simple Plan (and we apologize for the two lasts).
But then again for writing, it must be hard as hell. Why? At least, american all speak english. Crossing the state doesn’t mean changing language. In Quebec it does. Want to keep your book in french? Conquer Quebec and you’re done. Ouch. Ok… you can go to France if you REALLY want to. But THEN you’re done. After that translation is the only option left.
And guess what? Even after all that, I still want to write. I just can’t wait for the semester to end and have free time. Guess what I’ll be doing? WRITE! And play Aion, but that’s another story.
So thanks Chuck. I love you. Make me a baby! (Ok… maybe not THAT much)
Me, I’d write even if I was living out of a cardboard box, with nothing but chalk, charcoal and walls to write on.
I’m surprised I haven’t ended up in one just yet, is all. Writing’s hardly the most lucrative of careers, after all.
Now that I’ve read this and digested it thoroughly, I can give a proper response to it.
And by response I mean poop on it, cause that’s what digestion does!
Actually I found a lot of what you said to be what my inner demons whisper into my ear at night, especially with the success rate. I look at the low web hits that my blog has and when I see Shadow Nations sitting at Half Priced Books for $5 I almost fear that I’ll just be a hanger on, more remembered for my quirky posts on people’s blogs (kinda like this one!) than my own content.
But then that frustration turns to anger and I want to tackle the internet by storm. My latest project, CRDS, which I’ve sunk so many hours into may turn out just like Shadow Nations; but at least I’ll be remembered as a two project failure instead of a one project one.
Of course my anthology should come out next year (God willing!) even though we’ve seen so many delays but next year I should also see two short stories in print. I think I’m getting more successful with each year, especially considering how I got one thing published with White Wolf this last year.
Now I think someone should take a bite out of you and see how you like it! So here goes…Chuck, you are only a marginally successful haberdasher!
SUCK IT! *DX chop*
I am a fucking bad-ass haberdasher, sir. I haberdash with the best of ‘em.
You’re on a good path up, with short stories and what-not. Go you.
Also: re low-web hits on a blog, just remember that nobody knows a blog exists. It just sits there. You can fill it with as much content as you want, but until you point fingers at it, nobody knows it’s there.
– c.
For me it’s about putting up witty or hard hitting content. I’d put up a gaming blog but I know so many people who do that. I also can’t cook like you so that’s pretty much out, unless people want to know a bunch of 5 minute meals you can make out of pretty much anything. (I’m known for my sandwiches.)
I’ve thought about comedy but I don’t know if I could sell the appeal of it. I mean all aspects of comedy, not the normal satire that I deal with although when I finish the last 3 pages of This Man, This Wendig! you know it’s going up on Writing Incarnate. That’s right, I just need to finish the last 3 pages of the Inedible Wendig’s adventure!
You could do all of the above.
This might be a post worth writing. Hrm.
My brain go thinky.
– c.
Fuck you, you’re just trying to psych out and whittle down your competition. Don’t try to shove me aside, I’ll kick you in the ball cancer. You shouldn’t pull that shit on crime fic writers, we’re all bug nuts to begin with. We plan, we scheme. We write your fucking obit.
“Fuck you, you’re just trying to psych out and whittle down your competition. Don’t try to shove me aside, I’ll kick you in the ball cancer. You shouldn’t pull that shit on crime fic writers, we’re all bug nuts to begin with. We plan, we scheme. We write your fucking obit.”
Naomi, holy crap, you may have just won Comment Of The Year.
High-five on that.
“We write your fucking obit.”
Priceless!
– c.
I’ve decided that you should live, and yes, you should listen to more Scissor Sisters.
Also, we should make it a habit to punch other would-be writers. Less writers means more Korbel for us, right?
[...] Ol’ Terribleminds, born from the tapping keys of Julie Summerell on my earlier post about Don’t Be A Writer. In that post, I berate and demean you poor bastards to deliver an important life lesson (or, [...]
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ok, my job isn’t this bad, but I’m so ready to be a cubicle warrior!!
Diane Garnick, lead me to a better way!!! 2010 here I come!
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Diane-Garnick/188133090053?ref=ts
[...] 5) I will either start writing fiction or go back to poetry (or do both!), and stop using this blog as an excuse for doing neither. (Writers write. Period.) [...]