the lost man chronicles

the write crap

it would be vain of me to say that i only saw the sunny-side of things.

thus, I'll admit, that all this business about nothing is making me weary and worn-out, and for what good? to what avail am i reading all these tall tales about how improbable it is to be published in this lifetime? i'd like to think, and i continually remind myself that not only am i " learning the process," but i'm supposedly "having fun" as well, alas, i'm not feeling it.

at 9 pm, it's 'round this midnight of my day, i'm all google-eyed out, about to lose my pearly disposition. my mind is beginning to stray, and my soul is straining to remain pure and simple.

i keep thinking, "my fucking eyes hurt," and i've started laughing to myself out loud.

it's all beginning to feel like a bad dream.

for here i am butting up against a million likewise lukewarm wannabe-writing pundits who believe that the numbers are against you. fuck that.

being flayed by all the stats that say it can't be done, just makes me want to write faster. phuckin' phaster.

spheaking of which, it became obvious that i was on the brink of a breakdown when i deliriously began to equate mucky sales tactics with the quality of content it attempts to sell.

for i began posting to thinking-men's bulletin boards, when suddenly i realized "phuck philosophy!" nobody buys this crap anymore.

the right crap begins with an "S" these days—spirituality and self-help.

shit, time's a-wasting here and i'm shelling and shucking my wares to a mute world, instead of creating as i should be.

it's no wonder i'm feeling the futility, as the despondent pangs that bang out resounding echoes of emptiness—the haunting melody of this vain and vacuous exercise called—marketing.

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