Bookmaking log: revised through page <don’t worr> of OTR, <y about it> remaining of step 2 | TBN +2,396 words
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Listening to backwards music right now. I don’t know why but I can’t get enough of the shit. Anyway, I keep accidentally allowing myself to go on Facebook and look at the author groups and I keep seeing questions about “what do writers do wrong” and it’s like, 1, you’re literally farming for negativity – and getting it, mind you – while I’m out here sharing my glorious content trying to spread positivity and productivity and whatnot and I’m hardly getting scraps. I’m thankful for the scraps, I love my scraps, but to eat potato chip whilst watching ugly fat hairless fucks with golddigger-tier partners eat burger and the ketchup and sauces dripping out and striking thier many sweaty chins and dribbling down onto their fuckin’ semi-transparent yellow button-down whatever the fuck, because you know some of those fucks are this caricature exactly, but anyway, here’s my input. It’s in The Note because if I’m not dropping wisdom in someone’s comments or sharing my content or whatever then I don’t fucking post on Facebook, BUT, here’s the bookmaker’s superior half-gopnik partially Native American input:
you’re taking yerself two FUKCIN’ srsly, dawg
you’re not Stephen King. You’re not going to be Stephen King. Stephen King was Stephen King, and he wrote lots of shit before his books got big. Stephen King became Stephen King. You wanna know why I like – why I respect Stephen King so much? The Dark Tower. That’s it, simple as that. The Dark Tower is the sole and only reason. My current magnum opus Untitled Bigfoot Project is literally dedicated to and heavily inspired by King’s Dark Tower, it’s some of my most favorite shit, noted reader, and do you know what it took for Stephen King to write The Dark Tower? Multiple drug addictions, 30+ years of life in the fetid despicable thing that naturally evolved into the current American writing industry, fucking CHRIST, ‘man! and getting run over by a fucking motorized vehicle. Dude almost lost his ability to walk and/or his life, that’s what it took to write The Dark Tower. That is what it took to become Stephen King. That is why he is and will be remembered as one of the greats, and you’re not going to convince me otherwise because you can’t because you would be wrong, you sloppy illiterate fuck.
You want some advice, folks who are just getting into the game? Here’s some fuckin’ advice. I wrote literally over 1,000,000 words of fiction, fuckin’, I lost my mind to the point where I believed I was possessed by a demon – and I only realized I was possessed after I fuckin banished the demon, fuck you very much! – and found my way back to the dry shores of sanity ALONE, I did it ALONE solely through writing fiction, I made myself do the shit for 4 years before legitimately trying to promote my work to prove to myself that I’m in this shit for the long game, and I fuckin’ proved it to myself, meaning I don’t give a flying half-rotten piece of constipation shit about the wasted energy that goes into making that solid half a fucking % of your neurons fire, AXON DENDRITE AXON DENDRITE HELP MEEEEE HELP MEEEEE simon Simon SImon SIMON OOOOOOOOOO so writers who are new to the game, listen the fuck up, because there’s not a fucking soul on the planet who’s going to lay it all out for you quite like me:
Nobody cares about how great your book is. The world has enough great books to be satisfied with fiction writing as a practice. What the world needs, right now, in this current moment, is great writers. I’m not just saying this to stroke myself here, okay, I read this in a Charles Bukowski novel and ’twas the first time I seent it put into words, but there aren’t many truly great writers anymore. In the past, writers were fucking crazy! Writers used to kill for sport, I mean COME THE FUCK ON WITH YOUR MAINSTREAM TAPIRSHIT YOU GENERIC WASTE OF HUMAN FUCKING POTENTIAL I’m not going to make a list, because I don’t know specifics and unlike the majority of you fucking meatheads I don’t speak unless I have something to fucking say, but uhhhhhhh here’s the thing, pal: Stephen King is one of the greats, but he’s the great of what might be remembered as The Pre-Reality Check Era if our species lives long enough to get natural psychedelic substances legalized on a federal level. He’s undoubtedly a king of writing, but he’s the king named King, y’understan’?. He’s one of the greatest sober writers without a doubt, but he’s not crazy. And that’s fine, impressive really, because he managed to achieve greatness without being nuts! The money probably helped! A lot! And it was all probably really great for him, it obviously worked out pretty well. BUT, he also came up in a very different world. Things are different now, ‘man. There are less people and more humans, like, I almost hate to admit it because I’ve always had such a hard time here but the planet is changing, slowly but surely, and we each have an individual choice to make, ‘man: do we want things to stay the same as they’ve been where the world is in a generally suspicious state, what with all the human trafficking and political corruption and mass starvation and Jeff Bezos going to the moon without me after appearing at my window with a jetpack one night and giving me both the strength and courage I needed to press on Jeff if you’re reading this I do not appreciate the silence on your side of this fence you built between us but ANYWAY listen, ‘man. The point is, and FUCK ME am I kicking myself in the ass right now but, like, you can write the greatest novel in the world, but if nobody… okay, if nobody finds out about it, like, if you don’t do the work that it takes to write a truly great novel and then put it out in a way that makes people give a shit, well, nobody’s going to give a shit. I’ve written more good books than you’ve written books in general, you talentless wannabe cunt, yet I’m broke and totally unknown. Granted, I’m not a normal case, hence the whole demon possession thing and I’m not even lying about that, read the appendix of Running if you don’t believe me. Some of The Highest One Writing didn’t start out as fiction, folks, I write this shit to put the demons to bed before new ones grow and they all assimilate into a real delusion like this fucking arbiter theory bullshit I’ve been dealing with for the past 2 years, BUT THAT IS FINE, I have the book planned to seal arbiter theory‘s ass away, it’s going to be called Reunion and it’ll be book 3 of a 12-book spiral I’m going to write when I have the appropriate environment in which to write it, and I will have that environment, because idk what you did between the ages of 19 and 26, but I LOST MY FUCKING MIND, and THEN I WROTE SO MANY FUCKING BOOKS THAT I FOUND IT AGAIN. I made it through schizophrenia and came out psychephrenic, you sniveling motherfuckers, I’m going to get my own place, The Hillside Commons is going to be a fucking thing, I will starve myself like fucking Ghandi before I stop putting books out, OKAY?!?!?!?
DO YOU SEE WHAT I AM TRYING TO FUCKING SAY?!!??!?!?!? NO, PROBABLY NOT, BECUASE YOU’RE NOT CUT OUT TO READ THIS FUCKING BLOG POST, LET ALONE WRITE A NOVEL!
I can’t speak for everybody, but I can say with 100% certainty that I will not give a flying fuck about your new dystopian sci-fi fantasy technopirate thriller novella, nor will you get a fucking iota of respect from me for having the courage to do the work and put yourself out there BITCH I WAS WRITING BOOKS BEFORE I KNEW I WAS WRITING BOOKS, YOU MIGHT AS WELL NOT FUCKING EXIST COMPARED TO ME. better yet, YOU DON’T FUCKING EXIST COMPARED TO ME! You can’t stand next to me because my fucking gravity would snap your brittle little shin bones, you fucking absolute lemming! Cave your skull in, travel backwards through time, wake up, and suddenly get inspired to write a 200,000 word novel in 6 weeks out of nowhere with zero prior training nor interest in writing fiction and then talk to me! You’ll still get shit on because I do that shit before breakfast on a daily fucking basis, but hey, at least you’ll be able to fucking empathize! Nobody gets me because I’m that fucking deep into this fiction shit, ‘man, I’m stepping on ferns so the fucking deer know where to carve their runways, all right? Are you fucking GOOD with that you sloppy illiterate piece of garbage who won’t read a book if it doesn’t have a cover that the author spent way too much money on because guess what – that author ain’t fuckin’ Stephen King! You know who that author is? Miscellaneous generic industry shill who gave birth to a child and carved it up just like the doctors told ’em to # fucking 7, and that’s all they ever will be, and maybe that’s okay! Maybe the Universe didn’t offer them the chance to lose their fucking mind, lose fucking everything, maybe the Universe needs wastes of space like you to make the smart ones appreciate the bookmakers like me, listen, I’m not claiming to understand the secrets of reality, a’ight? All I’m saying is that I am objectively more interesting than you, and you won’t prove me wrong, because you fucking CAN’T! Read one of my books – any fucking one, even The Abusive Runner’s Log for fuck’s sake, the shit is 3,000 words long, I have a 600,000-word book out but YOU, well you’re a sloppy illiterate fuck, you can’t bother to give 2 fucking minutes to a masterpiece of supraliterary art that a local squirrel put 4 fucking years of his life into, NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, you need to read the fucking 3,000-word FUCKING RUNNER’S LOG – okay, I’m not sorry, you read any one of my books from cover to cover and you tell me there’s anything else in life I should be doing. Go fucking ahead. Oh wait, you won’t, because A, you’re a sloppy illiterate fuck and you probably think at least a single word beneath the 3 dots at the top of this tirade is meant to be taken seriously, in other words YOU DONT KNOW HOW TO FUCKING READ and B, because my books are the greatest shit on this fucking planet and it is an undeniable fact that I’ve found my fucking purpose, oh-KKKKKKAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY?
YOU RANT LIKE THIS PUBLICALLY AND PEOPLE UNFOLLOW YOU AT THE VERY LEAST
I RANT LIKE THIS AND IT’S ANOTHER FUCKIN’ TUESDAY
ON A MONDAY
BECAUSE THAT’S HOW MUCH OF A BITCH YOU ARE
F A G G O T
So, in conclusion, my advice to new writers is similar to Tim Dillion’s advice to new stand-up comedians: quit and kill yourself, and I mean that, truly and sincerely, (hu)man oh ‘man oh I’m just so sincerrrrrrrr because if you were me, you would have killed yourself by now. I didn’t kill myself during the demon possession days because I’m the bookmaker, I’m the guy, okay, I’m the fucking magic man, not only did I reject the planet and its inane society, I rejected all of fucking reality and created my own! Journey/Path/Transition coming in Over the River, folks, and you are not fuckin’ ready for Journey/Path/Transition, okay, I tell liquidbrain stoner folk about Journey/Path/Transition and they think I may have legitimately unlocked the hidden secrets of the Universe, and uh, guess what? That’s not something you did, that’s not something you’ll ever do, just like getting possessed by the fuckin’ Lyme demon, okay? By the way, ALL OF MY BOOKS ARE NOW AND WILL FOREVER BE FREE ON MY WEBSITE, FREE PDF DOWNLOADS, BUY IF YOU WANT BUT I KNOW YOU DONT SO ALL FREE EVERYTHING YOU FUCKING CHINLESS LOSERS, KEEP BUYING COVER ARTS AND EDITORS, KEEP GETTING DULLER! IT’S THE TECH N9NE EFFECT, YOU STUPID ASSHOLES, I’M ONLY GONNA SHINE BRIGHTER HAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAA FUCK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
This has been The Bookmaker, with capitals this one time, because I am your fucking Übermensch in the goddamn flesh. Over the River: The Emancipation of Jonathan Knox – along with the directior’s cut collected edition of The Fall of the Seven Earths TRILOGY, I’m releasing both books in tandem independently [through Amazon] just like all my other woks, just you fucking wait and see if I fucking don’t – coming out real soon.
butt n0t two to suun • imm’a maek ya wa8 onit • im’ma meka yeh w∞
• word to Stevie Stone (feat. Ces Cru) •
Oh, a question you may not have thought of… “what the fuck would this guy get up to if he didn’t make his books?”
That’s a good question, too. A dam good question. A The Monksville Dam, walking-distance from my house, which boasts a 188 foot plummet into the illegal Wanaque Reservoir where the corpse of some crazy recluse writer guy wouldn’t be found for days, maybe even weeks – he likes to go camping, maybe he’s just living on the mountain these days, are you going to go looking for him? until the decomposition starts to putrify the water, creating a plague-like effect described in my/his novel The Monksville Chronicles that you/you didn’t/didn’t read/read, especially if I/he jumps during one of the random walks he/I like to take in the dark between the hours of 12 and 4 am, 188 feet, that’s the height of an 18-story building! good question, ‘man (((((;;;;;
And I don’t want to hear a fucking word about a single fucking punctuation mark of this. Go do whatever it is you lie to yourself about doing with your time, I don’t fuckin’ want you back. I can smell you from here, you’re fucking gross to me
Since you’re there, noted reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~