2.9.16 11:11

Throughout my writing life (I don’t call it a career), the most common response to my writing is: How can you say that? Which leaves me, at times, proud of what I’ve done and at other times wondering if I’m risking my audience at times.

Inevitably, I decide that I really don’t care if I lose a reader, if I am to stay true to my vision, as a writer. So that begs the question: Is it risk, if you don’t give a fuck?

Recently, Louis C.K., our generations greatest comedian, launched an online tv series on his website. For $5 bucks a pop, you can watch an amazing show filled with intelligent banter. In the first episode,  we are introduced to Horace’s (Louis C.K) uncle, Pete, played by the always amazing Alan Alda.

Uncle Pete is the crotchety old bar owner who doesn’t give a shit about your opinion, bouncing back and forth with no thought as to what he’s doing, slinging shots to his regulars like the day has never ended.

Within minutes of making his presence felt, Pete drops the n-bomb, but says he’s not racist, that he served coloreds way before anyone else did, matter-of-factly.  Now, I shouldn’t be surprised – C.K. has made a career of pushing boundries, but I’m not going to lie. I was startled.

Why would Louis risk his image, his career, like this. Sure, writers get a little more leeway, when it comes to this type of thing, but … this wasn’t a show on HBO, i’m sure he will barely make enough money to come out even. So why, why risk it?

I’ll tell you why.

Risk is where the reward is. There will never be a time when you create something that 100% of the population enjoys. And if you are stopping yourself because you don’t want to offend the 80% that could give a shit about your work, then you might as well hang up your pen.

We live in a time when artists control their work like never before. Society thirsts for content, and content providers are scrambling for your work. Well … that’s what they tell me.

Look at what the Coen brothers are doing, with their latest flick, Hail, Caesar! A tawdry, tongue in cheek middle finger to Hollywood. I’ve always believed it to be ballsy to spit in the face of your god – even if you don’t believe in it anymore.

The movie spotlights the shady past of early Hollywood, the blackmailing, sexual abuse, etc. I doubt this movie would have been made ten years ago.

Another movie to watch for, The overnight, starring Jason Schwartzman, takes the romantic comedy vehicle, and manipulates it into one of the most interesting and possibly most important movies of our time. It will make you uncomfortable – and most likely piss off most of the people who took their date to see what they thought was just another RomCom.

Be unafraid with your art.

2.4.16 Mashed Potatoes & UFOS

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1.30.16 – Origins

In film, Origin movies have become a huge deal in franchise movies. It’s always interesting to see where a character came from, when you already know what they’ve become. It’s not the math we need, it’s the math we want.

For me, a long, long time ago, my mind was shaped by three men that I’ve never met: Howard Stern, Doyle Brunson & Charles Bukowski. I know. You just sat back in your chair and scratched your head. How the hell do these three guys fit together, you must be asking yourself. It’s a fair question. If you do any kind of cooking you’d understand that every meal takes a few different ingredients.

If you’ve ever read anything I have written, you know by now that I’m not afraid to throw something in that might not be in my best interests as a human being. I’m not afraid to use words that society deems unusable, nor am I one to walk around subjects that could be labeled taboo. This is the Bukowski effect. From the first time I laid eyes upon his words, I was hooked. This is the way writing has to be, if we want genuine work. We can’t be scared of words and topics. What if a boxer was afraid to throw punches? What if a hooker was afraid to suck some dick? They’d be bad at their jobs.

There is a scene in the movie “Private Parts,” where, and I’m paraphrasing this because it’s way to early to be googling, but it goes something like “If i’m going to be anything, If i’m going to be somebody, I have to go all the way,” … he went on to say that he has to use everything in his job to be successful. I’ve adapted this thought process in my writing, to the chagrin of some. There’s nothing I won’t write about – I can’t censor my process, if I’m going to remain relevant in my mind. After ten or so years of writing in this way, I do feel like I’ve alienated a large base of the original readers … but in the end, I suppose, they never really understood anyways.

It took Bukowski forever to get his career on track. Not that I believe he put that much effort into it (Which, I am guilty for as well), but once it did, he became something of a legend (and leper) of the writing community. I wonder how many nights he spent in front of his typewriter, yelling I quit. This is where the Brunson effect takes place, for me.

For this to be more then what it is, I have to grind out the nights of sleeplessness, of rejection, of depression, of nothingness. There is no American Idol for writers, no one seeking out the next great writer. Not to say I’m even close to being a great writer, but you know what I mean. I can only continue to play these keys with letters like Mozart on the edge.

1.14.16; on writing.

Bukowski offered up the best advice about writing, the want and such. Most haven’t the time to read a full on paragraph about writing, so I’ll get to his main point: Don’t try. I have a lot of writer friends who bemoan “i’ve got writers block,”. To that I say, “hush”.

There is no such thing as writers block. I’ll let that set in for a second.

Okay. So, there isn’t. Honestly.

There are just times when you have it and there are times when you don’t. A story cannot be rushed. A story cannot be hurried. The moment dictates the verse. I’ve always compared it to shitting. Hear me out.

Say you feel like you have to shit. So you sit upon your shitting chair, and you start to push. And nothing is happening! You are confused.  You sit there wondering why the shit won’t come out. You agonize upon your throne for ten, fifteen minutes, pushing and screaming as if you were in labor.

Still … nothing.

That’s not called shit blocked.

The story will come. The poem will come. The shit will come. Just don’t push. You keep pushing and you’re going to give yourself a hernia.

1.1.16

So, I don’t write like I used too. I mean, i don’t write as much as I used too. I mean,
i still write like I used too. Just not as much. Do you understand what i’m saying? I’m saying
that I don’t write very much.

Kristen bought me this really cool book, with a bunch of blank pages. It sits next to me as I
write this. There’s one page, however, that has words. Words that made me smile and at the
same time, agonize. Because, I’ve always thought of myself as a writer. As someone who has
these things in his head and his heart that he needs to share.

But, I just … never make the time for it anymore.

I’m jaded by the lack of interest for which my writing garners. Which is solely a product of
internet attention span, and has nothing to do with my writing. And I should ignore
that doubt that lingers in my head that tells me so smoothly to do something else, that no one
really cares what you think anyways.

But I can’t.

That’s the problem my whole life has encountered. The inability to exist in a world where i’m not
important. I think that’s called insecurity. It’s a pain in the ass. I wish I could just be a person, sometimes,
someone who just is.

But … I can’t.

I want more than this. I guess. I don’t know.  All I really know is, that I need to write more. And more often.
And not care if anyone is reading. Because I just need to do it.

For me.