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10 Tips to Becoming A Great Writer (Guaranteed Success)

  1. With no job, prospects, or school keeping me busy, I have plenty of time to not write my novel. Or merely think about writing without putting pen to page. Or complain about my inability to write to anyone who lends an ear. Or despair and drink copiously because I cannot write.
  2. All your favorite writers suck. Or maybe mine specifically. Jack Kerouac was a bumbling drunk Catholic poet who had a suspiciously odd relationship with his mother (I expect ridicule from this admission). William Burroughs was a drug addled degenerate, a heathen pederast, and a wife killer, who was so afraid of losing daddy’s money that he wrote his murderous homosexual drug fantasies under a pen name like a weakling. Henry Miller was likely a sex pest whose perverted musings on sexual liberation and the great American decay masked a hideous black spot in his life. Rimbaud? A whiny runaway, also a degenerate, a drug-addled homosexual teen, a bad flower! Hunter S. Thompson was an alcoholic lunatic, Céline had boy problems, Mishima was preoccupied with homosexual anxiety, Bukowski’s erections and thirst were his downfall etc etc. (Observation: no women on this list, mostly American 20th century literature.)
  3. I can no longer sustain an erection. And I am dangerously close to running out of liquor again in the face of a devilish and deeply misogynistic nationwide liquor ban.
  4. Sobriety is a tired old whore’s uterus. Nonetheless, it is highly admirable.
  5. Everyday I resist the urge to hang myself on my unfinished manuscripts. Today, I think of the novel which I am supposed to write, yet fail to given a devilish impotence. Tomorrow, I will sit before the blank page and cry.
  6. There is no shame in liquor, but plenty in drunkenness. My bouts of heavy indulgence always produced a violent rage and likely contributed to my declining virility at the ripe old age of 21.
  7. I would feel real trapped in this life if I didn’t know I could commit suicide at any time.
  8. All great books have been written, all poetry has been sung, there are no thoughts left to be thunk.
  9. I might check myself into rehab.
  10. Oh no, no, please, God, help me.


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