The Most Beautifully Awful Writing Advice Ever

Recently I was introduced to a gorgeous poem by the late Charles Bukowski called “so you want to be a writer?”

Here’s a small exert:

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.

You can read the poem in it’s entirety here of you could listen to a reading of it here.

It’s beautiful, right? Inspiring, powerful—something you would want to make a wall decal out of to impress your friends at dinner parties.

It’s also very, very, very, very, very, very wrong.

In fact, it’s difficult to recall anything that I’ve read that has been so astronomically wrong about writing.

Don’t misunderstand me, when he’s talking about writing for fame and fortune and sex he’s totally on the mark. Precious few writers reach the level of world-wide recognition and if you only want to write for accolades then you clearly don’t have what it takes to succeed in this craft. However, he also says–

“if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again/don’t do it”

and

“if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it/don’t do it.

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Uhhhh….I don’t know a single solitary person, good writer or bad, who does not struggle with sitting down and writing.

I also do not know a single solitary person who has never had to suffer through a rewrite.

You know, because first drafts are dumpster fires of confusion and poor grammar.

For those of you who are fans of Charles Bukowski , did he not rewrite any of his poetry? My education on the man is lacking so that’s entirely possible. Nevertheless, if it’s true that he didn’t then he is an anomaly.

His poem goes on to say that a person should wait until the fires of passion are so hot  they have no choice but to let them out before writing something.

“if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently/ if it never does roar out of you, do something else.”

tenor

I have had moments where the desire to write something was so powerful that I felt like the story was literally trying to push its way out of me, but I’ll be the first to admit that these moments are few and far between.

If you wait until you feel as if you physically have no choice but to write something, odds are you will never finish anything.

The Inspiration Fairy is a very fickle creature and will oftentimes screw off at random, leaving you with no will to go on.

My favorite quote about inspiration goes as follows “I only write when inspiration strikes. Fortunately, it strikes every morning at nine o’clock sharp.”

Courting inspiration is a lot like trying to find a significant other. You can’t just sit around and wait for someone to notice you.

I have found that the best way to attract inspiration is to have a set amount of time each day to write. Believe it or not, the more you write the more inspiration is likely to show up. There have been months where I have struggled to produce anything; however, once I made the decision to write for at least an hour every day, writing started to become less of a drag.

I found myself feeling more and more motivated and my writing began to suck a little bit less.

Better yet I actually started to finish things I started.

IoJhIim

Did that mean I never struggle? Hell no. I’m struggling right now, to be honest. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do it.

Same goes for you.

Struggling isn’t a sign you should quit, it’s simply a byproduct of trying.

And if you aren’t interested in trying then, and only then, would I say–

Don’t do it.

Flash Fiction: Everything and The Kitchen Sink

AN: This is an absurdist flash fiction piece I wrote based on the Reedsy short-story prompt “he glared at the kitchen sink in fury.” Enjoy! 

Leo glared at the kitchen sink in fury, holding the remnants of his spaghetti dinner in his hands.

“Hope this pleases Your Highness,” he murmured bitterly.

With a fork he scraped off the noodles that clung desperately to the porcelain plate, and little blobs of tomato sauce plummeted to the bottom of the basin with an inelegant plop.

The sink remained obstinately silent for a moment as if collecting its thoughts on the man’s meager offerings before releasing a low groan.

Leo tapped his foot impatiently until the appliance, at last, belched obnoxiously. The mouth of the sink expanded and a large boot flew from the opening, falling to the tile floor with a thud.

Leo took a knee and scooped up the boot, inspecting it with the scrutiny of an art critic The disgruntled homeowner turned the shoe to the right, the left, then peeled back the tongue to peer inside. He found nothing.

“Where is the rest of ‘im?” he demanded, throwing the footwear over his shoulder.

The sink gave another belch more pronounced than the last one.

It wants more, the greedy bastard.

Leo took the strainer and sauce pan from the top of his stove and stalked to the sink. Grudgingly, he ladled the rest of the tomato sauce from the pan into the sink’s awaiting maw. As soon as the spicy tomato sauce was gone, he grabbed fistfuls of the angel hair pasta and literally hand-fed them down the drain.

The sink devoured the dinner, rumbled and grumbling like a stomach with indigestion.

The contraption burped again and another shoe exploded from it’s mouth, landing hard on the linoleum.

Leo slammed his fist against the countertop.

“I gave you all I have!” he bellowed. “That was the last of it! Where is he?”

The sink did not respond.

“I don’t have any more food, you fat bastard! You’ve eaten me out of house and home! Just give him back.”

He was answered with silence.

“I don’t care what them big-wigs say about your bloody rights. If you don’t give ‘im back now, I will personally rip you out and replace you with a garden hose, I will.”

To this the sink said nothing once more.

“Yeah,” the man said with a confident nod of his head, “think on that.”

Leo was close to boiling over. It was all their fault, Parliament. It had been their idea to give inanimate objects autonomy and this was the price tax-payers had to live with. Now you had a mass exodus of lorries, computers that demanded higher wages, and even laundry machines that wanted a vote in the next election.

Don’t do it, he’d said. It’ll give them airs, he’d said. And here was the proof of it. Back in his day, machines had respect for their human superiors. No longer.

Leo’s reverie was interrupted by a gurgling resonating from deep within the plumbing. He recognized it like the sound of someone about to be sick.

Finally, a large mass was pushed out from the opening of the sink, stretching the opening of the appliance like a cervix. A toddler fell end-over-end to the floor, landing soundly on his bottom. He was covered from head to toe in a slimy film that smelled like cleaning fluid. The tike’s blue eyes welled with tears that trailed down his cheeks.

The man towered over the child, arms folded across his chest. “Now what did I tell you about feeding the sink during the washing up?”

The child ducked his head guiltily and wiped the tears from his eyes with a wet sleeve.

With a roll of his eyes, the man hoisted the child up into his arms. “Come on, then. Let’s get you into the bath, eh? Let’s hope she’s in a good mood.”

Together the pair squelched to the washroom in the hopes that they wouldn’t wind up in the plumbing again.