Advices for writers

  1. Eat silhouettes if you know you are going to die alone so that moments before you die, you poop out shadows that could pretend to be your companions. Dying alone isn’t something to fear. This is not a writing advice, but it sure looks poetic.
  2. Make more foes than friends because people can only remember that you exist if you inflict rage or wrath or resentment. Neutrality is a kind of death. And, no one wants to die this way. When Jesus descends the mountain after many days of fast and desolation, he tells the tree, please don’t be a tripod. Not a writing advice, but when does an advice need to make sense?
  3. Write everyday – if the desert in you must dry out, couldn’t your soul be a sleeve? A water faucet? Climate change?
  4. Fuck other writers so you have juicy, gothic gossip material to betray.
  5. If you want your grammar to be consistent, don’t get raped. Rape alters syntax and morphology and maybe your own mythology. And, it’s no fun.
  6. Picasso says that sex and art are the same thing. Don’t listen to him. Sex is active. Art is passive. When you write about sex, you have gone too long without it. When you write about art, the neuropathway to your imagination has gone awry, as in insane.
  7. Bipolar people can be great at reading and analyzing poetry. Know where your human references are. Cognitive slippage is the artic region of their imaginative faculty where feelings cease making sense and language is a doormat, not a dormitory.
  8. Write insincerely. Truth is overrated. What leaks on the page sedates honesty and gives birth to fiction, falsity, artifice, chicanery, which are all important writerly things that pave the road to success. If you write honestly, you might fail to meet the reader’s expectation. They are expected to be cheated out of a story.
  9. Wear a kimono if you know you are going to write about obesity, aprons or half-aprons, sumo wrestlers, 27 inches, peeled, roasted chestnuts, and about the imperiality of dark color, of black silk, or insulation. And, especially if you are going to write about oversleeping.
  10. Do not write after you get raped or have been near a gravity well. The dictionary defines “a gravity well” as a physics term, a region of minimum potential.
  11. Carefully remove all sharp objects or humans or events that get in the way of writing. Avoid a life with opioids. At least have a roof over your head.
  12. Learn to write on only one sheet of paper. My father had a friend once who had a son who was so poor that he only had one sheet of paper made of cloth to write his notes on. Each day, he walked home from school, memorized his notes, and squatted near a basin of a river to wash the small calligraphy of his penmanship away. Rotememorization isn’t overrated. It’s a way of storing notes. It’s a way of using poverty to accelerate or turn it into a tributary of resource. Can one misplace a notebook if it has been written on the stone of the subconscious?
  13. Read excessively. Read intemperately. Read immoderately. Read unnecessarily. Read exceptionally. And, then stop to smell a fox’s ass. If a fox is cunning, its cunt and its ass are….
  14. Don’t have children. They eat away all of your resources. You may need to donate them to Goodwill. You may confuse their encircled embossity for accessibility.
  15. Don’t overedit. You could scrub away pigments that may save the lives of your protagonists and ultimately could scrub away your sanity.
  16. When you run out of things to say, write about umbrellas. The glutinous diskette of a jellyfish that misbehaves like an antiaircraft artillery. When things close, they open. On a rainy day, marry a swift wind and then write about it.
  17. The defecator knows when to write. The best time to write is after you defecate. When you are no longer you, you are more you than the previous you.
  18. MacKenzie Bezos, the writer, married Jeff Bezos in 1993 for a quarter of a century. Her maiden name was Tuttle and she went to Princeton. And Toni Morrison was her teacher. Do the obvious human math. Lexically. Linguistically.
  19. Use words that only you could understand. And, it’s the most effective way to not monetize your work.
  20. Write naked when you try to end your novel. Nudity can lead to misdirection. Possibly deceit. You may need them to perorate.
  21. Collective motivations lead to syllabary corruption. Avoid words with too many syllables that you won’t know how to pronounce. If your piece gets accepted by a literary magazine, the editors may ask you to read it over the radio. And, you may have to spend ten hours at a radio station shouting repeatedly into a metal penis that confuses a hand job for jugular adjustments, basically a hand for a neck. And can’t tell the difference between ejaculation and amplification. And, the microphonic penis, most likely, doesn’t know how to auto-voice correct you.
  22. Sleep at least ten hours a day. Insomnia isn’t a foe, but a friend? Please.
  23. Book tours are overrated. Be kind to your body and environment by not flying.
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