Tuesday, August 28, 2012

High Noon

Cracks in your teeth, you smile. Ask for a hug. I smell booze and filth and madness and I hug for all I'm worth and I hope I won't get sick. Or stabbed. You can't deny someone a hug. And you twirl off down the street wearing all the clothes you own. And I get sad and happy. And I feel strange. The smell sticks and the hug felt good and I'm all mixed up.

I'm still trying to make sense of it and I get an email from an old student. Advice about writing. Shit. I don't know, brother. It's like anything else. You do your best and you keep doing it. You fake it when you can't bring the real shit and you hope no one notices. You'll wonder why the fraud seems so well received - there's a lesson there. Feed the frauds if that's your thing...let them choke on it. You write a story about a baby bird and people think you're a lunatic. I'm not afraid of lunacy. I've been there and back.

Advice? Fuck, man. Write. And hug people if they ask for a hug. No one gets there fast, and if they do it doesn't last. It's a journey...it's shooting free throws. I want to play music, but it's not time for band practice and I guess I'll just wait. It's not time for drinking and it's not time for smoking and it's not time for prying that pill bottle out of its hiding spot.

It's time to make money and that ain't got shit to do with writing. I'll take all comers. Call me an asshole. I don't give a shit. Bring it. I don't want to hear about how many books you've sold or how many people have their faces glued to your asshole. I want to see what you've got. This is a pistols at high noon kind of thing.

Advice? Fuck, don't ask for advice, that's my advice. Do it your way and do it the best you can and hope that you don't end up alone and bitter with only your propped up accolades to comfort you. Stare at the sun a while. Moms said that was bad, but she was just looking out for you. Don't do what I did...you aren't me and it won't work for you.

I'm serious, though. I'm the fastest gun in the west. If you don't believe it, I'd be glad to enlighten you. And that makes me a prick, I know it. We might as well be honest. I hate almost everything about myself, so I might as well get some mileage from the things I don't.

6 comments:

  1. Dan,to me, this is the kind of fiction ;) you were born to write. If I had a hat, I'd be tipping it, my friend. It's shooting free throws alright.

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  2. Funny, I was just leaving some advice on a writer's post--a smug litte para on how to beome an author. Sheesh. If I'd read this first, i wouldn't have left my mouse-droppings. I'll leave a few comment on IM but overall I'll say that you hit the nail on the head: the best advice is not to ask for advice.

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  3. Thanks Erin. I really appreciate you reading the blog. I'm going to start updating it more. :)

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  4. I know what your thinking. Did he write five stories? Or was it six? Well being as how I write the most powerful stories in the world, you have to ask yourself one question. Do you feel luck? Well do you? Punk.

    Love,
    Dirty Harry

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    Replies
    1. LOL. I ALWAYS keep count.

      Thanks buddy.

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