Well, by the mercy of Sweet Saint Fuck, here we are.

Let’s just go through the journey, shall we?

It took me five years to write Blackbirds. Or, more to the point, it took me five years to learn how to write Blackbirds. I’d written five novels before that, but this one was different. I was into it, but not getting it. A mentorship with a bad-ass dude (salute to Stephen Susco) taught me to outline, to frame it out, and then there it was: a book.

Got an agent very quickly, bing. (*waves to Stacia*)

Got a publishing deal um, not immediately. Was another two years, I think, before the book hit shelves — so, by then, you’re looking at a seven year situation for one goddamn book, and as I am wont to say to new writers: it takes the time that it takes.

Blackbirds, about a very cantankerous, cynical young woman who can see how you’re going to die just by touching you, came out in April 2012, right around my birthday.

Though I wasn’t able to announce it, we had a TV option cooking from literally the day the book came out — when the book came out, I was out in Los Angeles for the LA Book Fest (and I’m back this year, bee-tee-dubs) taking meetings on the book.

I wrote Mockingbird in 30 days. (I’ve seen some snark about how haw haw he writes fast and that’s proof Wendig sucks, but hey, fuck you. Like I said: it takes the time that it takes. And that 30 days wasn’t like, BOOM I WROTE A BOOK IN ONE MONTH, NOW TO IMMEDIATELY CATAPULT IT ONTO A BOOK SHELF — it took additional time in revisions and copy-edits.) Mockingbird, which took Miriam into the heart of a serial killer’s madness and that killer’s predations on a local girls’ private school, debuted also in 2012, about four months after the first book.

The Cormorant, which saw Miriam going up against a returning enemy — who had been upgraded with psychic powers all his own — also had her confront her past in the form of her mother. The Cormorant came out in late 2013, and honestly is maybe my favorite book that I’ve ever written. I actually freaked myself out writing the ending, and loved every moment of it.

Now, here’s where the journey gets interesting.

First, we had a TV show with Starz — and then we didn’t. It was going really well. We had locations and offices and staff and we were talking casting and then we weren’t talking casting and then nothing. That’s the business, them’s the deals, no harm, no foul. (Honestly, I think this timed out with Starz picking up Gaiman’s American Gods. On paper, both books are dark urban fantasy about troubled anti-heroes. And if I had the choice to make a Miriam TV show or an American Gods TV show, I’d make the Gaiman show in the hair’s breadth of a heartbeat.)

Second, we were able to rescue the rights to Miriam from the original publisher, Angry Robot, and then were able to resell them to SAGA, an imprint of S&S, under editor Joe Monti.

Meanwhile, I started writing Thunderbird.

That is to say, I started writing it in 2014, and finished it in early 2015.

Which is further to say, I wrote the book two years ago.

That only struck me recently — way time and memory move, I didn’t realize there had been quite that much time in between the finishing-of-the-book and the publishing-of-the-book. Part of the delayed publication was in part to give a staggered re-release to the first three books, all with new covers. (I, too, miss the Joey Hi-Fi covers, by the way, but the one issue I had with those covers is that on bookshelves it was hard to distinguish between the separate books. And the original publisher didn’t put a series number, so a lot of people read the series out of order because they just didn’t know. The new Adam Doyle covers are dynamic and rad, and put a cool focus on the, ahem, bird component of the story.) Also, the goal was to put the final three books closer together in publication — not one a year so much as one every 6 months or so.

So, two years (!) ago I wrote Thunderbird, and then moved into writing a novella, Interlude: Swallow, which takes place after The Cormorant and before Thunderbird, so it’s something of a bridging story. You can find that, by the way, in the Three Slices anthology, which is a rad project I did with FELLOW PENMONKEY PALS Kevin Hearne and Delilah Dawson. (You’ll also find some Miriam storyworld mythology inside The Forever Endeavor, fyi.)

Then there was the Miriam Black video game, where you literally had to mash buttons in order to drink and smoke and curse at people as you watch them die.

Okay, that might’ve just been a weird dream. No video game.

(Though I’d totally play that video game.)

Meanwhile, I wrote The Raptor & The Wren (out… I think by the end of this year?) and am currently writing the last (gasp!) Miriam novel, Vultures.

And now, here we are.

It is the day.

Miriam Black is back.

Thunderbird is here.

Holy fucking fuck.

Thunderbird: Indiebound | Amazon | B&N

Obviously, I hope you’ll check it out. It’s the next stop on what has for me been a long, fascinating, and sometimes circuitous journey. Miriam is — well, Miriam is the product of a broken world full of broken people. Nobody is good. Everybody is just shades of bad. It’s a book that’s about mortality and frailty, but it’s also a book that enrobes a tiny little pilot light inside a deep dark pit. And yet, I don’t aim for the books to be bleak, either — despite all the darkness, I like to think they’re exciting and fun and funny even as they are ideally very very fucked up. I’m sometimes asked what genre these books are — I wrote them as horror-crime, they got initially branded as urban fantasy, and are presently called supernatural thrillers. I’m good with any of those, I suppose. Genre is a floating target. Either way, no matter where they fall, I hope you read them, I hope you like them, and I hope Miriam peck-peck-pecks her way into your heart as she has mine. Now, I just have to extract these angry ravens from my chest cavity.

Reviews

B&N SFF Blog:

“Despite a few years away from the series due to a change in publishers, it takes no time to feel right at home with Miriam again. Wendig slams down the accelerator on page one, and never lets up for a moment. His frenetic, shotgun style of prose is a trademark, and nowhere does it hit with as much force, drive, emotion, and explosiveness than when deployed in service to Miriam Black. His descriptions of her inner turmoil—should she get rid of her powers, when they are all she can rely on to uncover the coup—are among the best moments in the book, and truly show the growth this once-broken drifter has experienced since we first met her. Her pain is our pain and her fears are our fears as she puts her hopes on the line again and again to save a young kid who may hold in his grasp a terrifying ability. Wendig surrounds his dark knight with a cast of luridly colorful, broken, vicious, and powered people, especially the woman of the hour, Mary Scissors, whose true powers and motives are something horrifying to behold.”

Publisher’s Weekly:

“This gritty, full-throttle series is what urban fantasy is all about, with bitter humor rounding out lyrical writing. It’s easy to root for this mouthy, rude, insensitive, but innately good young woman, and her story hits the reader like a double shot of rotgut.”

RT Book Reviews (top pick!):

“Once again, Wendig finds a way to blend startlingly powerful descriptions and deep emotional gravity into a gritty, cynical narrative. The action comes fast in this fourth Miriam Black novel and the pace is relentless, but Wendig has control, carefully building his heroine and her world with each chapter in a way that is fascinating and thoroughly entertaining. New readers will have a good deal of catching up to do here, but for those who have followed Miriam’s remarkable adventures to date, the chance to watch her character, and her personal relationships, grow ever deeper and more complicated should not be passed up. A final, utterly devious premonition is sure to leave readers feverish for further installments of this haunting and ever-entertaining series.”

back off man i’m a word scientist

Hello, America. I am the Internet’s Chuck Wendig, and contrary to what I usually do on this here Website, I’m going to offer some Vital Writing Advice. I am the recipient of a lot of emails, and between the emails where people are mad at me for ruining Star Wars are the emails where people ask me for advice on buying various chairs and pastries, and in between those emails are the writers who want to know how to write. “Internet’s Chuck Wendig,” they plead, “please tell us the secret that will turn us into Super Mega Ultra Rockstar Writers like yourself.”

It’s true that I am a Super Mega Rockstar Writer, though I have not yet earned the Ultra adjective yet because I have not yet fought and killed the Chaos Leopard and taken its sapphire eyes as a trophy. One day!

ONE. DAY.

*a distant leopard’s growl fills the sky*

It’s also true that I am in possession of a great many Author Secrets — that’s right, it’s not just one Author Secret, but an entire liquor cabinet I mean regular cabinet of Author Secrets.

I will share them with you now, in defiance of the Galactic Author Guild’s autocratic laws. YOUR OPPRESSION ENDS HERE, G.A.G., I AM BRINGING THE TRUTH TO THE PEOPLES.

Quickly now, absorb this information before it is taken down! HURRY

1. Finish What You Start. A story is not a story without an ending, and so you must practice to that point. Plus, finishing a thing makes you feel good. It gives you momentum.

2. Write Who You Are. We worry so much about originality in stories, and I’m here to tell you, no story is original. What is original is the arrangement of the story, and that arrangement comes from you. Do not run away from your authorial intent. Run toward it.

3. Also Run Screaming Past Your Self-Doubt. Your self-doubt is a jerk. It’ll jog alongside you, trying to convince you to just stop and lay down and give up. You can’t give up. Keep running. Run faster than your self-doubt. Steal a car. Steal an actual car. Drive fast past it. Then reverse and back over it. Hear the crunch of its bones. That’s what it gets for sassing you.

4. Write What You Know. And what you don’t know, you can always learn. And what you can’t learn, you can always steal from other authors by hitting them with rocks and opening their heads like coconuts. Each writer’s brain is like a fruit containing many seeds, the seeds of knowledge. Kill authors and eat their brains.

5. Don’t use adverbs. Adverbs are witch’s traps.

6. WWFD? Ask, what would Jonathan Franzen do? And then listen to the answer. That’s Franzen speaking to you from his cosmic prison. He wants to be free but you mustn’t let him be. Squeeze your eyes shut and command him to leave this plane, reminding him that he has no power here. In the wake of his absence, you will feel cleansed and ready to write.

7. Panic. Just freak out, man. Seriously what the fuck are you doing. You’re a writer, that’s a bad decision. You should’ve gone to school and been an accountant. People need accountants. You fucked up but now here we are and the only choice you have is to lose your shit and go for broke.

8. Show, Don’t Tell. Don’t say anything. Don’t even use words. Use pictures and sounds. I wrote a whole novel in grunts and pictograms. That novel was called The Chronicles of Narnia.

9. Fuck the First Draft. As Hemingway said, the first draft of everything is shit. So don’t write a first draft. Just skip it. Start with the second draft. Boom. Now you’re a published author. Next secret? Skip the second draft, too, and start with the third. Kapow. Now you’re a bestselling author. That’s how it happens. That’s the magic.

10. Write 1,000 Words A Day. But don’t write them in order. That’s how you confuse the witches. You can put the words in order later when the witches are asleep in their tower.

11. Study Other Successful Writers. Other writers have done this well, so study what they do. Look at their sentence structure. Examine the rhythm of their storytelling. Chart the map of their many footsteps, ideally tracking them with RFID tags. Rifle through their trash like a raccoon. Steal their debit cards. Eat their food and their bank statements and the hair you find in their shower drains, all while miming their mannerisms in a mirror. Live under their floors or behind their walls. That way, you find the ideal time to strike — pop them with a tranq dart and once asleep, search their bodies for ancient sigils and secret messages tattooed there. Then lock them in a cage and steal their manuscripts for your own. Become them by performing The Rites. Or say fuck it and then go back to number four, where you bludgeon them and eat their brains.

12. Eat Bees. You gotta eat some bees, man. C’mon. Just fuckin’ eat ’em already. We all do it. They’re full of protein. They also sting you as you eat them which activates your Imaginatory Gland, so eat a handful of bees and then you get jacked on cool thoughts and ideas. Eat the bees. Don’t be a baby about it.

13. Stop Eating Bees. All right, you’ve eaten too many bees. It’s weird. You got a problem. Go to a meeting. Bees are going extinct the fuck is wrong with you.

14. Don’t Ever Look At The News. Because like Fiona Apple said, “This world is bullshit.” It is. It’s all bullshit. It’ll just make you sad and then you won’t write, you’ll just sit around eating cheesecake and offering up stupid writing advice on the Internet. The news is dumb. The world is dumb. Retreat into your land of unicorns where it’s safe.

15. Read The Work Aloud. Reading the work aloud lets you hear the rhythm, the flow, the inconsistencies. It’ll help you catch any awkwardness or word choice problems. It’ll also help you catch the witches. The witches are coming but they are easily confounded by stories. They are held rapt by them, and as you mesmerize them with narrative, you can kill them and take their hats and wands. Fuckin’ witches, man. Every writer’s enemy, those witches. If witches are not your enemy, you’re not a writer. And no, I don’t mean COOL witches, I don’t mean your friend, Zelda, who’s a witch and who casts spells to protect your third-floor condo from bad spirits, I mean like, ANCIENT FUCKING WITCHES, I mean, eldritch crone-hags who are eternal and who have haunted the Earth from its earliest pyroclastic days. Those witches.

16. When In Doubt, Pterodactyls and Frankensteins. Stuck in your story? Just throw in some pterodactyls and Frankensteins. Always peps up a dull story!

17. Scream At Ponds And Rivers. Water contains mystical properties and is also where the Muses hide. When you are passing by any body of water, yell at it and command it to inspire you. Yell at it until you are frothy and hoarse. Demand the Muses rise from murky turbidity and deliver inspiration unto you. That or a sword. Sometimes Muses hand out swords.

18. When In Doubt, Cats Grant Wishes. That’s true. That’s why authors always have cats because those are the cats that granted those authors their wishes to become authors. I have two cats, and they’re from a rare breed called “dogs.” They’re pretty weird looking but whatever.

19. Listen To Thoreau. Henry David Thoreau said, “Write while the heat is in you.” Which is another way of saying, Thoreau ate bees and so it’s time to start with the eating bees thing again. I know, we were past this, but now we’re not, so num-num some bees. That’s what Thoreau was doing when he fucked off to the woods. He was destroying trees, looking for bees and honey to eat. Thoreau was a bear. What I’m saying is, be a bear. Part-time, at least. A were-bear. A lycanthropic ursine. Margaret Atwood is also a lycanthropic bear-person, because she’s Canadian, and all Canadians are lycanthropes. But I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know.

20. Molt. When in doubt, shed your flesh. Let your true author spirit emerge from the leavings of your discarded scale and leathery epidermis.

21. Listen to Le Guin. Ursula K. LeGuin once famously said of writing, “Writing is a toilet-man’s job.” I don’t know what it means but she said it to me last night in a dream. Always follow your dreams, is really the larger point I’m trying to make.

22. Fuck It, Just Pretend. You can get all the benefits of being a writer just by telling people you’re a writer. It’s okay. They won’t follow-up. Nobody reads books. You can just say it. “I’m a writer.” “Oh, really?” “Uh-huh.” Then you name some made-up books you wrote. “Oh, I wrote The Judas Contingency, and its sequel, The Red Pumpkin.” Nobody will ever go check your work. They won’t buy it. They’ll probably tell you they already read those books. “My Mom loved that one,” the person will say. God people are the worst.

23. Reject Rejection. If someone rejects your work, reject their rejection of your work. Write a formal letter on some fancy stationary telling them categorically that you have read their rejection and you found it wanting, please and thank you. That’s how you get published. It’s like a double-negative. It’s a trick we all use now and again. No shame in it!

24. You Must Join A Critique Group. Stories are best when they are formed by committee. A critique group is an excellent way to ensure that your story is something everyone agrees on. Many bestselling novels have maximized mediocrity, turning it into a bonafide art form, and a critique group is a very good way to achieve that weaponized cromulence quickly. Bonus: a critique group, if given enough time, soon becomes a cult, and if you write really well, your story can become the cult’s holy book. And then one day you’ll be naked in the woods summoning LORD VURBILEX, THE RECONDITE SCION OF TURGID WORDSMITHY, HERETIC OF THE PROSELANDS, and he’s your god, now, so kill a goat and get to writing, you stupid vessel.

25. Never Take Advice From Writers. We don’t know what the hell we’re doing, either, and if we did, we wouldn’t spend time telling you how to do it, we’d just be doing it.

* * *

COOL SO NOW BUY MY BOOK OF WRITING ADVICE OKAY GREAT

DO IT OR YOU’LL DIE

THIS IS THE ONLY WAY TO BE A WRITER. READ IT AND IT BECOMES A GATEWAY ALLOWING YOU TO MANIFEST YOUR FINAL FORM. IT IS FULL OF BEES-FOR-EATING AND WISH-GRANTING CATS. 

BUY THIS BOOK NOW BEFORE THE GALACTIC AUTHOR GUILD SUPER-BANS IT FROM ALL CORNERS OF THE INTERSTITIAL REALM

HURRY GODDAMNIT SHIT

Amazon

B&N

Indiebound

Writer’s Digest

Okay, it’s like, 25 degrees right now, but last week it ticked up to 76F, and stayed warm for days — and it’s getting warmer again this week. In February. Fucking bleak-ass winter-faced February. Now, I’m a confessed hater of winter, but when it’s this warm in a month normally hella cold, it’s hard to enjoy the weather when you’re casually imagining polar bears drowning in a boiling sea, y’know? BOY IT’S NICE HA HA HA THE WORLD IS DYING

But, I guess fuck it, it gets me some okay macros. The macros at the very bottom of this post are quick snaps I took outside one warm morning — already some spiders had been out, weaving webs, and the webs had dew on them. Hence, photos. Not great ones, but alas.

Beyond that, anything else going on?

HMM LET’S SEE.

Oh, I dunno, could tomorrow be the return of Miriam Motherfucking Black? It sure is. Miriam is back in Thunderbird, and she’s in Arizona looking for a woman who she believes can end her curse — but in hunting that woman, the path cuts clean through the wrath of a local militia hell-bent on bringing down the government.

The Miriam books are always a blast to write, in that they’re just — you know, they’re full of bad people. Nobody’s really good, everybody’s just various shades of wrong, and yet, Miriam — no angel herself — has to navigate this troubled land to try to find a way forward for herself and those she meets. It’s good bad fun.

If you wanna check it out —

Thunderbird: Indiebound | Amazon | B&N

Also, here’s a great Thunderbird review from B&N:

“In many ways, this is Wendig at his most Wendig-ian: a noir woman kicking ass in the name of truth, justice, and whiskey, doing her best to avert the worst, gritting her teeth through it all. Miriam is not the character we met back in Blackbirds, though her bad habits have stuck around, along with a penchant for the most inventive cursing in the lexicon of the English language. She is more than just an avatar of death: she’s a bonafide hero, damn it. And from the way her journey ends in Thunderbird, with a twist that plunges in like a knife, she’s going to have her work cut out for her over the next two planned books, hero or not. This is a triumphant return to a series that pushes the boundaries of urban fantasy into stranger territory.”

Also, if you want a great Empire’s End review from the New York Daily News…

“The pace really picks up in the final major confrontation of the Galactic Civil War, with plenty of tension and personal sacrifice in the various narrative threads, and Wendig’s writing style lends itself well to action here…

Ultimately, “Empire’s End” provides fans with a vital part of the puzzle that links the Original Trilogy and “The Force Awakens” as it finally tells us how a brutal regime came crashing down.”

Seriously, thank you to everyone who has been writing me nice things about the final Aftermath novel. The first book had some, erm, challenging responses, but the response to this book has been way above my expectations. I FLAIL AND GESTICULATE IN YOUR GENERAL DIRECTION.

Oh! And for the answers to last week’s MYSTERY MACROS:

1. dog tongue / whiskers

2. passion fruit aral inside the fruit itself

3. dog snoot

4. dog eye and fur

5. mesh on a trucker-style baseball hat

6. human tongue (mine)

7. dog tongue (snoobug’s)

8. old tea strainer

9. stikbot toy dog

10. dog snoot 2

11. clothespin spring

I may have to do that again — mystery macros. Maybe a contest?

Now, for this week’s (non-mystery) macros:

Click me.

That will get you a set of random photos on Flickr (based on their “interestingness” algorithm).

Pick a photo from that spread.

Use that photo as the inspiration for a new piece of flash fiction. When you post the story at your online space, please also link to that photo on Flickr (not to the random generator) and give credit to the poster/taker of said photo.

That’s it. Easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.

Length: ~1000 words.

Due by: Friday, March 3rd, noon EST

Post at your online space. Give us a link in the comments.

These are weird days for the country — hell, the world — and I think as writers it behooves us to look at our place and what our work means or can mean in the context of this changing landscape. Betsy had some thoughts in that direction, so here she is to talk about it:

* * *

A few years ago I wrote a book called The Silver Scar. I’ve been joking since it sold if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named got elected, at least Alt-America would be awesome publicity for my future thriller featuring a pagan eco-terrorist and a Christian soldier trying to stop a crusade in a balkanized United States run by martial neo-Christian Churches. Alas, Scar doesn’t come out until 2018, so it’ll have to wait for its big promotional moment in the sun, which at the rate the EPA plans to roll back its regulations might be burning much hotter by then.

But I have another book out February 21, the conclusion to my Seven Eyes trilogy, called Enemy. It’s about this chronically depressed prince who suffers a coup by an upstart, spoiled lord and then has to find his missing queen, figure out how to live with magic that blinds him, and fight a foreign invasion. Cheerful stuff, right?

While it’s uncomfortable to talk about your own book at any time, it feels trite along about now even though this is my actual job. It’s been worrying me, the relevance my fantasy novel has in Alt-America. What does Draken have to do with daily slap-fights between the government and the press or fake massacres because the real ones apparently aren’t bad enough? It doesn’t feel like enough somehow, like I should have written a different book with a theme more pertinent to the times. This insecurity fits right in with my fear that We the People aren’t enough to save our democracy… not loyal enough, radical enough, liberal enough, conservative enough, smart enough, pragmatic enough.

And then my kids marched with their fellow high schoolers the week of the election.

Millions of people around the world protested peaceably the day after the Inauguration.

Millions other people with chronic depression, people with other conditions, people with no conditions started speaking and getting heard. Daily Dissent on Facebook. Senate offices swamped with phone calls. More protests with signs that read, “See you next weekend.”

There is inspiration and energy all around us, which only makes me feel worse about discussing my new book.

But when I revisited the flap copy, I realized with no little shock that two years ago I accidentally wrote a story in which every rational and irrational fear I’ve had since the election happens to Draken. Akrasia is a nation of several races of immigrants and all the prejudices and privileges of diversity. After spending years building bridges among the people, he loses his family, his home, his future. Women lose their rights to fight, to own, to be more than just ancillary to men. Friends are disappeared or murdered for being the wrong race or in the wrong place. His country loses all its hard-won stability and safety.

Overnight, Draken goes from prince to enemy of the state. It takes him a while to sort out facts from lies, danger from paranoia. It takes him longer to realize who he is actually fighting. But the strides he made before are not gone; only the path has changed. The people who want peace and happiness for all are still out there, waiting for their opportunity. Just like our own people are still here, wanting our world to be the best it can be.

Since the election I’ve been reading and reading like a madwoman, always with a book in my hand. I haven’t been that way since I was a teenager doing my best to ignore a world I failed to understand, a world of sharp edges and barbed words. It’s not a bad tactic to avoid reality. Frodo, Adam Dalgliesh, Miss Marple, and all the rest were good friends to me then. They let me into their worlds when no one would let me into my own. They taught me how to be a part of things when I had no practical experience.

I’ve realized again how story bolsters us through harrowing times. We can relate; we’re all trying to write our own. Immigrants are trying to rewrite their own lives into happier stories of security, safety, family, and growth. Parents are trying to write the world around their kids into something they can live well inside, and write the kids into people who can live well inside the real world. The government is trying to rewrite the US into something… else.

Writers, hell. We’re just trying to write anything at all, reality be damned and truth revered.

But that’s the crutch of the thing, right? Stories matter. Right now it might be the stories skirting reality which matter most of all.

Fantasy tends to sell well during wartime. Fantasy is a reflection of our world painted in more brilliant shades. The sun burns hotter, the blood runs redder, the tropes are tropier. But the heroes shine brighter, too. We aren’t at war yet, not like some people say.

And yet we are. Lucky for us there are thousands of books full of other worlds in which the protagonist who makes a difference is unlikely, as unlikely as you or I. Even princes like Draken are unlikely; he’s got a truckload of fears and faults holding him back from doing the things that matter. I know I do.

Far be it from me to offer anyone advice on how to change the world into a better place. I’m a storyteller, not a life coach. But I will say this. When Draken is made powerless and realizes he has become the enemy, he focuses on what small thing he can do, and he does it with a vengeance. I don’t think he’s an anomaly. I think there is something each of us can do, maybe small, even accidental, and it will matter. It will add up.

* * *

Everything Draken thinks he knows is wrong.

The last time Draken traveled Akrasia, he was the highest lord in the land. His journey before that was eased by royal favor and the grace of the gods. This time is different. His adopted country buckling under attack from religious fanatics and his Queen presumed dead, Draken must flee a deadly coup by an upstart lord. Bitter from fighting an insurmountable war and losing the life he’s built, he lets the ghosts of past mistakes drive him into vigilante revenge. But Draken is about to learn gods and wars have a way of catching up to a man.

Betsy Dornbusch: Website | Twitter

Enemy: Amazon | B&N | Powells

I am astonished these days by the bold-faced ballsiness of the Republican hypocrisy.

My jaw is perpetually on the floor. It’s not even attached anymore. It’s just a jawbone resting at my feet, as my tongue flops and flips around my rent-open face in moist gesticulations that fail to properly explain the sheer what-the-fuckery I’m forever feeling.

It’s probably always been there, this hypocrisy. Maybe it was better hidden, once upon a time. And certainly no political entity is without its duplicities and insincerities — but what we’re seeing now, what is paraded before us daily by both the administration and by Congress, is like satire written by an angry eight-year-old. It’s so clumsy, so on-the-nose, that no one would ever let the story air because it feels like a chimpanzee’s attempt at parody. Irony is dead. It’s six-feet-deep. Political humor is harder now than ever, because how do you make fun of a clown?

Every time I turn on on the news or even glimpse at Twitter, I see more and newer hypocrisies whipping fast past my eyes, scrolling like the list of side effects you’d get on a commercial for dick pills. It’s dizzying: an ever-growing display of towering horseshit so vertiginous that to attempt to climb it would be positively fucking Sisyphean. You’d never make it to the top. You’d forever be sliding back down as another shovel-load whaps you in the face.

They say they care about families, but then they rip them apart and deny them aid. They call women “hosts,” removing their personage, their choice, their access to care. They love unborn kids but somehow hate the women that give birth to them. Eat shit, Moms. They only want what’s in those uteruses, not the uteruses themselves. And once you’re born, ha ha, double fuck you, kid. Fuck your education. Fuck your health. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps, they say only after they’ve bought up all the bootstraps for themselves and closed the bootstrap factories and what the fuck is a bootstrap, anyway?

They speak about individual responsibility, but can’t even show up for their own fucking town halls. They won’t be accountable to anything or anyone, but you, you have to be accountable for everything — even for them. When they say individual responsibility, they mean fuck you, do it yourself. Fuck the safety net. Fuck the general health and well-being of the nation. They got theirs, man. They mean that they won’t help you. The government’s very job is one of communal responsibility, but they have absolved themselves of that role and given it only to you. And how far down does that rabbit hole go? Will we be our kids’ only teachers? Are we our own doctors? Is the road outside my house mine and mine alone to build and to fix? They want to hold only their enemies accountable. They’ll investigate Hillary for decades after she’s dead, but they won’t cast one suspiciously-slitted eye toward Trump, toward Russia, toward every pay-for-play drip of corruption that erodes the bedrock of our government’s ability to self-regulate.

They talk about freedom, but the freedom they want isn’t for you. The freedom you want is the freedom to be able to drink clean water, to breathe clean air, to buy products that won’t kill you, to buy insurance that won’t bankrupt you, to invest in a future that helps you instead of hurts you. The freedom they want is for themselves. The freedom they champion isn’t yours, it belongs to big business. They want businesses to have the freedom to poison your air and your water, to lie to you, to tie you up with loopholes like nooses, to savage your investments and your future earnings. They want the freedom to take advantage of you, and they’ll sell that as your freedom, too. Don’t you want the choice to be lied to, to be cheated, to be ruined? What freedom! What choice! Ah, yes, just as our Founding Fathers wanted: the liberty of empowering others to fuck you from every angle. Isn’t that in the Bill of Rights? Can we get it in there somewhere?

They talk about being fiscally conservative, but then they spend money like they can just print more. (And our president thinks we can just print more.) It’ll cost more for our Comrade-in-Chief to go golfing than for the entire National Endowment for the Arts budget. The president has the fiscal discipline of a drunken gambling addict.

They talk about being stewards of the land, then take a flamethrower to the EPA, try to sell off the national parks, refuse to acknowledge climate change, and eradicate environmental protections — including streams. Because fuck streams, right? Streams have had it too good for too long.

They want you to pay your taxes, even though our president is proud of having never paid his.

They bark about voter fraud, then gerrymander the shit out of everything, rigging the game with a hundred thumbs holding down their side of the scale.

They climb to their seat of power on a ladder whose rungs are fashioned from fake news, and then once they’re up there, they look down at you and say, you’re the fake news. Everything you want, fake. Everything you are, fake. You don’t even exist if you disagree. Did you protest? You were paid. Did you show up at a town hall? You’re not a constituent. You’re a unicorn. A snowflake in need of a safe space.

And yet, they call us snowflakes, but melt under the tiniest light of scrutiny, under the smallest agitation. The moment anyone disagrees, they retreat to their own safe spaces, close and lock the doors, turn off all the lights, lower all the blinds so they can peer out until we’re gone.

The evil circus peanut who sits in the highest chair in the land decries liberal Hollywood elites while being himself a liberal Hollywood elite. We must do more with less, the man says as he goes to one of his like, seven fucking White Houses to hold a rally for an election in four years that doesn’t even have an opponent.

They talk about making America great, as if Americans weren’t already great.

They vilify illegal immigrants, as if we weren’t all illegal immigrants — as if this isn’t a country built first on native land that wasn’t ours, then second on the backs of black slaves who we stole and enslaved and tried to treat more like livestock than as human beings. They try to demonstrate how great this America is, but then those who come here to share in its greatness are cast aside, are sent away, are rounded up and torn from their families and told they don’t belong here. They claim to serve an America for all Americans, but it’s not — it’s for a very narrow slice, for the richest and whitest and straightest, for the healthiest, for the abled, for the men, for the companies, for themselves. Even the white working class gets fucked even as they’re told they’re not, because they still have to drink the water and breathe the air. They vote for the right to poison the water, you drink the water, you get cancer, but fuck your health, and fuck your kids if they’re born with a defect, that’s America, now, buddy. The freedom they want is to get what’s theirs from your pocket and pay no price for it even as you wither and weep at their feet. The freedom they want is to rob you blind then point to The Other and say, they did it, over there, it wasn’t us. We look just like you. You could be rich someday. Wouldn’t that be nice? It’s them over there. The welfare queens. The foreigners. The terrorists and the rapists. Not us. Never us.

They make hats and shirts that say AMERICA but whose tags say CHINA.

All the while, that word America in their mouths like a Bible verse on the tongue of the Devil. God Bless America, they say as they pick up their axes and chop at the roots of this tree. We’re good Christians, they say, as they do yet another un-Christian thing, because I’m sure it was Jesus who said fuck you, I got mine. Piss on compassion. To hell with empathy. These hypocrites cut away at the foundation of all the things we need to be a smart, healthy, successful country. They attack science. They hack at education. They want to chop your healthcare to splinters. They destroy debate. They slit the throat of every fact they don’t want you to know. They call the media the opposition, the enemy. They claim that truth is fake. The truth that we are at greater danger from white nationalist terror than from radical Muslim terror? Fake. The truth that we have nothing to fear from refugees, and that they are already extremely vetted? Fake. The truth that transgender individuals are not the harassers but in fact, the harassed? Fakeity-fake-fake, they say. The sky is red, ham is a fruit, pray for the family of Shazaam Berenstein, a survivor of the Bowling Green Massacre who then went on to die in the Swedish Event.

Their hypocrisy only grows — swelling like a tumor, diverting blood-flow away from healthy organs and to itself, because that’s how a cancer grows. A cancer is your body in rebellion. A cancer is rogue cells bypassing the checks and balances of your biology. This is that. Their hypocrisy is a symptom, though. And like with all symptoms, we must not ignore it.

We must treat the disease. Inoculate against the bullshit.

They will not hold themselves accountable.

So we must.

We must demand they do better.

We must demand our media be the watchdog.

We must resist their duplicity and their lies.

Courage in this strange time, folks. Stay frosty. Remain vigilant. Hang together.

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