This Is Not My Story To Tell

I’m going to tell it anyway. Suprise. For writers (and delusional editors) telling stories is kinda what we do.

A guy came into a bar.

Ordinary.

Now, let’s change the context.

A guy came into a bar butt naked.

Two words. Changes everything.

I once told a story to a ballroom filled with medical people who deal with HIV/AIDS. It’s not as simple as it sounds. Now, let’s change the context.

It would be irrespponsible of me to not include people surviving HIV in anything and everything I write because what you know is not what I know and what I know is that your wisdom lives in an impenetratable bubble by the Bubble Master. Surprise.

This makes medical people throw up and itch and they scratch a lot. A few threw chairs at the wall. I swear to you, it happened.

Nevertheless, most people will want to know what kind of computer do you use, and how many children do you have, and what was your first wife’s maiden name, and where did your servants come from.

I do not have servants. I have a dirt bikes goes fast – how fast does a dirt bike go – fast enough to make you cum in your pants. Now, there’s a story for Better Homes and Gardens.

What this does to writing is to piddle on it. Yet writing has been around the block a few times. It does not care. It does not care who the writer is. It does not care who your wife was. It does not care how big your dick is, well, it cares a little bit.

New York Times on writing. By. Me. Reacting to Salman Rushdie. Who is correct about these things.

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  A tornado dropped my house in an evil land with only one road. Telling stories gets me into lots of trouble in Publishingland.  You will confront 55 gnomes (whose job is to prevent publication) who have been imbued with fairy dust that is, in fact, editorial poison. Never sit down to dinner with gnomes. Personally, the poison apple (who would serve poison apples for a dinner party on Zoom) caused me to sleep. Publishingland is dull. I woke up when some hot prince and seven little (hot) men were kissing me. I can’t tell you (it would not be civil) what happened then, but I can always be pulled into a roaring campfire surrounded by rapt children straining to hear all the dirt. Campfire stories are best. They make writers. Telling hot stories to children is probably overrated, but it gets everyone’s juices flowing. Dull people (I know, it’s uncivil to say dull) don’t get a minute of it. Publishingland and the mad king don’t much like this either, but the truth to the difficult and hard reality in this evil kingdom is that the point of writing anything, anything, is to see what you can get away with. The critics perform the autopsy. You will be denounced by trolls, witches, wolves, grandmothers, editors, and dragons. Writers know that witches, wolves, grandmothers, and dragons are not real. Just editors. But in some strange Dr. Who brain, you can say to yourself, well, they might be real. Might Be is another refrigerator door to open and win a trip to Vegas. Come on down.