Bite Me, You Egomaninnies--by Reb MacRath
Most of you are too young to remember, but you're about to learn some news--so astonishing and wonderful you can't help but cry
Well, that's enough foreplay. It's time for the news:
Once upon a time writers had actual lives. And their books were all the better for it...as were our poor addled brains. They did not spend all their time on Facebook or Twitter...doing interviews...writing blogs...traveling on extended tours. They had lives. And they had lives not only because they had enough money to have lives. No, the books they burned to write were born of a passion for life...and first-hand experience, not research snatched from Google.
Some great writers wrote quickly while others did not. Not all achieved fame in their lifetimes. But the books that do live on were grounded in experience. Rowdy and bloody or quietly blue, the one thing they all have in common is this:
They came from the hearts of real men and women who, by God, who had actual lives--and knew whereof they spoke: from the poems of Catullus to Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance...from Shakespeare to Flaubert...from Byron to Twain to Hemingway...
But that was then and this is now.
More like the worst world, for my dough. And the egomaninnies who thrive there do nothing times nothing but eat, breathe, sleep and shit self-promotion.
My FB Notifications panel explodes with hourly alerts (initials changed to protect the guilty):
--G has written another of his 3000-word FB political rants, recreational breaks from the novels he turns out at Guinness speed
--E touts his wares on Twitter in an endless flood
--S works both FB and Twitter round the clock to hustle his 86 novels
--F posts hourly reviews of his new book on FB for 33 straight days
--F posts hourly reviews of his new book on FB for 33 straight days
And on and on and on.
My poor head spins, my stomach heaves. With increasing speed I block FB Notifications for posts written by egomaninnies. And I won't bother with their books. My book shelf, of course, will be smaller than most. But the shelves will hold real books written by real people.
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As to Don Juan, confess that it is the sublime of that there sort of writing; it may be bawdy, but is it not good English? It may be profligate, but is it not life, is it not the thing? Could any man have written it who has not lived in the world? and tooled in a post-chaise? in a hackney coach? in a Gondola? against a wall? in a court carriage? in a vis a vis? on a table? and under it?
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As to Don Juan, confess that it is the sublime of that there sort of writing; it may be bawdy, but is it not good English? It may be profligate, but is it not life, is it not the thing? Could any man have written it who has not lived in the world? and tooled in a post-chaise? in a hackney coach? in a Gondola? against a wall? in a court carriage? in a vis a vis? on a table? and under it?
--Lord Byron
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Join me in this poignant cry:
Comments
Maybe my books won't rocket to the top of the lists, but I can get more writing done without the noise. With enough hard work, a gob of luck, and maybe, just maybe, this writing thing will take off, all without me having to be a jerk.