When asked what I do, if I’m not in a wiseass mood, I’ll say I’m an author who writes humor about relationships. The typical response includes skepticism, laughter, and the shared desire to someday write a book. I recommend against it.
“But, wait a minute. You did.”
“I also threw a red beach towel in with my whites.”
“Can’t relate? OK. Today, I received an email from a buddy with a video link of two naked women getting it on.”
“I clicked that link.”
“I was treated to a woman defecating in a man’s mouth.”
“No, some other guy, but it was gross as fuck. Ruined my breakfast. My point is, when you meet someone who has done something you aspire to do, don’t assume it has worked out well for him. It may have turned out shitty.”
“That’s an odd way of making a point.”
“Indeed. I write, therefore I’m odd.”
Lots of people write. Every email and text you send is somewhat creative. If you enjoy sending those and telling stories, maybe you’ll find publishing a book to be fulfilling. If you’ll only be fulfilled if said book makes you rich and famous, I say, “Stick to emojis.”
You see, writing is often frustrating. Once you create something, roaches crawl from the darkness and begin to pick at you. Sure, you’ll have some accolades too, but people tend to enjoy complaining more than praising.
It can fuck your relationships too. Aside from the condescending, “I read what you wrote” comments, I notice that some readers have a hard time understanding the concept of fiction. Fiction is not factual, which does not imply that none of it is true. It simply means, on a whole, the work is not being presented as if it were Fox News (odd comparison, I know, because most of the news they report I believe is highly sensationalized and fictionalized). Still, you get the point, right? Although I’m writing fiction, there’s some underlying truth to it all. How much truth? Well, that depends on your perspective and experiences.
I often get in trouble when I’m dating someone. I tell her she shouldn’t read me; she does anyway. I tell her it’s not about her; she doesn’t believe me. I write a romantic piece to offset my clumsy sarcasm; she thinks it’s about someone else, so I’m cheating on her.
Off I ride, solo into the sunset, thankful my horse can’t read.
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