This has got to stop.
Nobody wants to hear me knock Christmas,
progress, or the American dream. Feel sorry for myself.
You God Damn complainer. You dirty phony saint and martyr.
Come back when your face clears up. Fix your computer,
your car, your house. Get a job. Nobody told you to sit
at home and worry about how you'll sell a book
when no one will look at the manuscript.
Who said you were supposed to sell
a book. What are you--a reality TV show?
Just because you write what people write at
their web sites, does that make it literature?
Areas not interested in agenting: Poetry,
autobiographical fiction, anecdotes and ravings.
I see that CHRISTMAS STORIES goes on the end of
at the house. I see that it's ended.
Christmas will come or it won't.
I'll go or stay home. What
difference does it make.
It all counts towards forty.
I had my chance. I blew it.
That was my chance.
This is what I came up with.
at the house. 70,000 words of daily typewriting.
70,000 words of incoherent rambling.
Grousing and bellyaching.
Making excuses. Alibi Ike.
Go to the chaplain and get
your t. s. card punched. Tough shit.