23 October 2001

Your Hair Was All Frizzy And Your Face Was A Mess/ I Thought It Was A Sack, But It's Your Favourite Dress

"Since women are enculturated to equate value with looks, women may be more self-conscious than men about the looks of their writing. A writer who cannot risk appearing 'ugly' gives her power as a writer away to an interior version of the fashion industry. Just as it is demoralizing to be valued primarily as a body, it is likewise demoralizing (humiliating and deeply unsatisfying) to have one's writing valued primarily as an object that sells."

High five to Gail Sher! Dude, you are so right. The only reason any geek - boy or girl - ever wrote was to get laid. For real.

Bukowski? Grumpy old fuck. Wrote a few poems and suddenly it was cunt centrale down in his flabby goiter-encrusted neck of the woods.

Henry Miller? Shabby old fool. But the more books he banged out, the more vagina he banged in.

Me, I'm already getting laid, but that's no reason not to stockpile a nice bundle of substitutes, just in case. Yeah, just chuck 'em in that room over there. There's enough biscuits, porn and Playstations in there to keep twenty or so tight-assed hotties primed for years.

Ms Sher is so on the money. Men can just write about how ugly they are and still get laid. But who wants to nail a laydee who goes on about her rancid vagina? What girl wants to appear fugly in their writing?

I pump these keys so you see me as a prime slice of maximum fox. I wanna sauce you up with verbs and adjectives. I wanna make you pop a boner with clauses and conjunctions. Not for me the lid-lowering, lash-batting, lip-licking tricks of the serial flirt. If we meet, I need you primed. Stiff. Wet. Whatever. Life's too short, ya know?

I have no problem with my writing being 'valued as an object that sells.' My writing is an adorable hustler in string vest and track pants, flaunting the booty, displaying its hot 18-y/o arms, pulling down its shorts to show its tattoo, bending over to take it in the ass from any dong, boy or plastic, that heads its way.

My writing lives for the feel of those crisp twenties in its palm. My writing needs a fat packet in its pocket to match the fat packet in its pants, ya know what I'm saying. You wanna purchase some hot writing, just mail me, beeyatch. Eek, sorry. My writing made me say that. You see?

BUT. The Gail girl's got a point. I don't feel like keeping secrets no more. I'm like some wannabe anorexic suckin' my stomach in, when, ya know what, it's party time. Time to unpop the top button, AMP. Chomp down a few more chicken wings. Dig into the dips with fingers. Let the grease sparkle on your chin. You ugly! Ain't dat the truth!

Hang on to your cat-hats. There's a bad moose on the rise.


(One Continuous Mistake: Four Noble Truths For Writers, Penguin/ Arkana 1999)

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