Like Gas On A Fire

Been quite a week. Saw the last ultrasound of my son before he’ll be born (poor boy, he looks like me). Finished a script, which is now off into the wilds, trying to gather financing like a big Hollywood Katamari ball. Started early development on another film project. Sent off two novel synopses. Wrote like a mad motherfucker and finished the novel, Double Dead, topping out at ~90,000 words.

And then last night I get home from “baby class” — where we were injected with deep panic regarding car seats — to discover that Writer’s Digest has named this blog one of the 101 Best Websites For Writers.

First, I must extend a sincere thank you to the folks at Writer’s Digest. I don’t know who was responsible, exactly, but they should know that I appreciate it. A wonderful surprise.

That said, I must also extend with that a sincere warning, as well.

You have made a terrible error. A grievous error. (Man, “grievous” is a great word.)

You know how sometimes you have an out-of-control toddler or a dog with bad habits, and someone inevitably rewards the child or dog and then someone has to step in to say, “Don’t encourage him?”

Mm-hmm. This is like that.

Good heavens, why would you encourage me? It’s like pouring gas on a fire. No, not even that. It’s like giving meth to a grizzly bear. Then giving the grizzly bear a jetpack and a Turkish scimitar. No good is going to come of that. Sure, you want to see what the grizzly is going to do. But it’s just not safe. It’s not even sane.

That scenario has no positive outcome.

The only result of putting this site on such an estimable list confirms that you’ve filled my head with the airy delusions of legitimacy. It’s like you’ve handed me a license from the government, and printed on this license are the benefits of said licensing, and those benefits listed include:

“The right to make up writing advice and claim legitimacy despite only threadbare authority;”

“The right to fustigate readers about the head and neck with false bravado and eye-watering profanity;”

“The right to use words like ‘fustigate;'”

“The right to guzzle a pony’s weight in liquor while doing all of the above.”

You’ve not only unlocked the cage door. You’ve thrown the key into a dark and endless abyss. This will have terrible repercussions. Twenty years from now, I’m going to be telling my then-20-year-old-son something and he’s going to say, “Dad, I don’t know if that’s right, I don’t think anybody actually found the Humbaba from the Epic of Gilgamesh in Lake Erie. You’re just making that up.” And I’m going to whip out my copy of Writer’s Digest and point to the 101 Best Websites For Writers, and I’m going to just tap #43 gently and clear my throat obnoxiously, thus indicating my false expertise in everything everywhere ever always. And then my son is going to ask me, “Dude, what’s a website?” And I’ll answer, “It’s like a dinosaur, except with more pornography. And don’t call me ‘dude,’ I’m your father.”

Then he’ll ask me, “What’s a writer?”

And I’ll just cry and remind him that writers all went extinct in 2013 when the price of e-books hovered roughly around “one possum tail and a handful of dried leaves.”

So, haters who think I’m gonna shut up? Oooh. Yeah, sorry. Like I said, gas on a fire. Conflagration, whoosh. Now I’ve a whole head full of illusion, my ego like a fatted calf.

Those who continue to dig on this site, well, buckle up, penmonkeys. The ride is only just getting going. Turns out, terribleminds ain’t going nowhere.

Thank you again to Writer’s Digest.

Now —

RELEASE THE METH-GRIZZLY!

*raaaaaar*