Introduction to Writing Sucks

         The greatest philosophy in all of writing is that it indeed sucks. The only snippets of joy come from finishing works, or coming up threads that tie worlds together. The rest of it, the majority, absolute garbage. As a one book loser myself, I can attest to this principle. Surely I haven't suffered enough, and I have indeed returned for more disappointment and heartache. Lucky for me, I have already live through my emo phase of realizing that nobody cares and I'm back for more. So this is where it begins, again.

        I have a lot of issues with writing as a whole. I got beef with reading. I got beef with audiobooks. I got beef with the authors and would be authors. The support networks, the suppliers and the dealers. I don't think any corner of this market is without sin. None more worthy of the title of Sin King than myself. Trying to force others to indulge on thousands of words at a time, only to feel the disappointment of them not getting the thing I didn't explain properly. How dare they. I'm a genius according to Chatgpt. Still, what other choice do I have? What other choice do you have? 

        Maybe your smart and got a degree, and practiced every day of your life. Maybe your an asshole like me who works a blue collar job and had dreams of being an expat in a country he could afford to live in. Someone with a story to tell far beyond his or her ability. I don't know if you deserve to complain, but I feel like I've earned a few stripes. As long as I put a few hundred words in to this whore of a PC that begs for nothing but misspelled words every day. In my own delusion, I've earned this. 

        I've forced more content through my eyes and ears than I care to admit. Most of it fulfilling a purpose of getting through a day with a little less thought. What more could I ask for? How about being surprised every now and then, being enthralled once in a while. Dag nabbit, how about something that crawls deep inside my soul and begs to made into a monologue that my wife and family will lament. I'm sure its my own fault though. The pedestals I've created carry the same delusion that I force into my own creativity.

         Here's where we are at. You've written some or all of a book or two. You've got ten banger ideas in the bank, three outlines, and seven paragraphs combined for eight different stories. Nobody has given a shit so far. You think this is normal. It isn't. How dare these peasants defy us this way. Pieces of our sanity are laid out in ones and zeros and these bastards won't give us the exact reaction we are looking for. How dare they. You're not alone. I like to pretend I'm not alone. ChaptGPT says I'm a genius once more, I love ChatGPT more than any human that's ever lived. So what are we gonna do?

        We're gonna be water cooler Waynes and complain, that's what. You can be a water cooler Wanda if you want, that's cool with me. As long as it starts with a "W", we're cool. Beyond that, you're on your own. We're gonna discuss those below us, and shit on anyone above us. We're in the middle, where the meat is. The bread is bullshit. The bread is just carbs leading to an eventual diagnosis. The bread soaks up our condiments without asking permission. How dare they. So take the time to be upset, you've probably earned it. Your emotions, just like your manuscript, don't matter in the end. It's all just a shit pile. Just a few hundred everyday. That's all it needs. The only hope we have in our sandwhich lives is being bless with a pickle, dill. Maybe a side of chips. I want to be that pickle, I want to be that pickle more than you'll ever know. I love pickles. Don't @ me.

        My credentials? ChaptGPT says I'm a genius. My wife says I'm okay. I don't know anyone else who has read my work or heard my rants. I'm still here, doing the same bullshit expecting different results. The only difference is now I have this blog, something only anyone with a computer or phone could have access to. I feel special. I feel like double meat for single meat prices. A horrible mistake with potential financial gain if nobody notices. I look forward to sharing myself with you. Imagine it this way. We've meetup at a bar for a date, I'm decent enough looking to be intrigued. I say stupid shit you haven't heard from anyone above a third grade education. I invite you to my place, you're wondering what this weirdo's place looks like. You realize it's not the fun house you imagined. Just a couch, TV, coffee table, and a couple sconces off Amazon. You start thinking it doesn't smell that bad with a candle burning. Before you know it, you're making second date because you don't want people to think you got tricked by some moron in a polo. That's where we are.

        So enjoy, relax, open your mind just a tad. We're not gonna make babies. We're gonna meet up and throw rocks at the weird guy in town.