So You Want to be A Writer?

[Wat_Tyler]

I like this:​

​

​

So You Want to be A Writer?​

By: Charles Bukowski​

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

 

[Angeline]

Not so fervent as Buk's poem, but one I've always liked:

The Best Cigarette
~by Billy Collins

There are many that I miss
having sent my last one out a car window
sparking along the road one night, years ago.
The heralded one, of course:
after sex, the two glowing tips
now the lights of a single ship;
at the end of a long dinner
with more wine to come
and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier;
or on a white beach,
holding one with fingers still wet from a swim.
How bittersweet these punctuations
of flame and gesture;
but the best were on those mornings
when I would have a little something going
in the typewriter,
the sun bright in the windows,
maybe some Berlioz on in the background.
I would go into the kitchen for coffee
and on the way back to the page,
curled in its roller,
I would light one up and feel
its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee.
Then I would be my own locomotive,
trailing behind me as I returned to work
little puffs of smoke,
indicators of progress,
signs of industry and thought,
the signal that told the nineteenth century
it was moving forward.
That was the best cigarette,
when I would steam into the study
full of vaporous hope
and stand there,
the big headlamp of my face
pointed down at all the words in parallel lines.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Not so fervent as Buk's poem, but one I've always liked:

The Best Cigarette
~by Billy Collins

There are many that I miss
having sent my last one out a car window
sparking along the road one night, years ago.
The heralded one, of course:
after sex, the two glowing tips
now the lights of a single ship;
at the end of a long dinner
with more wine to come
and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier;
or on a white beach,
holding one with fingers still wet from a swim.
How bittersweet these punctuations
of flame and gesture;
but the best were on those mornings
when I would have a little something going
in the typewriter,
the sun bright in the windows,
maybe some Berlioz on in the background.
I would go into the kitchen for coffee
and on the way back to the page,
curled in its roller,
I would light one up and feel
its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee.
Then I would be my own locomotive,
trailing behind me as I returned to work
little puffs of smoke,
indicators of progress,
signs of industry and thought,
the signal that told the nineteenth century
it was moving forward.
That was the best cigarette,
when I would steam into the study
full of vaporous hope
and stand there,
the big headlamp of my face
pointed down at all the words in parallel lines.

But it does rather "say it," doesn't it? I smoked for eons, and it was funny how a cigarette was a punctuation mark, or a symbol of a new beginning, or a successful completion, or of a fuck-it-let's-get-high kind of thing. Camels. The real deal. I miss them, and I don't. I know I have another start in me, but I don't think that I have another quit.


Billy is kinder, Chuck is a bit pushier, and mine in the other thread has a touch of . . . hostility?

 

[lovecraft68]

I like this:​

​

​

So You Want to be A Writer?​

By: Charles Bukowski​

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Wow....

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Wow....

I know.

 

[Bigtitsbitch1000x]

Well now.

Having been close to the circle of Hank Bukowski -- I'm pondering how to memorialize his associate Nelson Cherry, who I welcomed to San Francisco in about 1974.

Cherry became Cherkovski and wrote this at my urging and with my "political" help:

Hank: The Life of Charles Bukowski https://a.co/d/jdtR4CH

Much of what is written above is extremely obvious.

I am reminded of this:

https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2008/10/15/631688/-

Except that unlike O'Nolan/O'Brien/gCopaleen Buk was utterly incapable of self-reflection or self-parody.

I think also of this:

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2006/10/16/red-sheep

See "Lifeitselfmanship."

Tom Mallon is a friend and author of a book every writer MUST read:

Stolen Words - The Classic Book on Plagiarism https://a.co/d/hFA79Uf

And this book every American MUST read: the only accurate account of JFK's death except for that by J.G. Ballard:

Mrs. Paine's Garage: And the Murder of John F. Kennedy https://a.co/d/1K9OEvP

Now as to the Bukowskian rescript:

iif you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.

Bullshit.

Milton: "Fame is the spur."

Dr. Johnson: "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money."

Neoconservative that I am, I'm sticking with the old Brits over the transplanted kraut in L.A.

if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.

Double bullshit. I do it because I can't not do it. But if I couldn't get great poon, bitchen studly boys, and the occasional wandering siamese cat, ocelot, puma, Maine coon or plain old alleycat to flop for me because I'm famous, what's the point?

if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

More bullshit.

Eliot: "Mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different."

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

Right, Puk. I mean Buk. If you have to beat your woman up in an international TV interview, and are so grossly ugly you only have friends because a poofter named John Martin discovered you as the "white Maya Angelou" (easily checked on Koogle.com, the Jewish literary gossip site -- cf https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Kugel)... You're ready for your chocky milk.

Buk made a fetish of spontaneity, not keeping copies, and not giving a shit about anybody's opinion. Fabaroo. He mastered the meme of indifference to success. But he whored. For fame.

He had a dumb book called SHAKESPEARE NEVER DID THIS.

BUKOWSKI NEVER DID THIS:

I love my Big Domme, my Princess Domna, my editors, my comrades, my friends, my colleagues. I don't consult every one of them about every text. But Big Domme inspires me and Princess Domna curates my work. A writer without friends is common. A writer with friends has... Friends. Hard to explain.

Yes. It's difficult to be a writer. Success is elusive. Real friends are few. Relationships are difficult. Money is scarce.

It is not a joke when I say that having come into my femininity I want to be a bimbo.

http://www.pinkbimboacademy.com/2021/01/10/bimbo-training-the-bimbo-body-the-perfect-bimbo-tits/

A critical observation: the literature of desperate loneliness does not work in El Lay. The buffoonish John Fante, the incontinent Bukowski, the imbecilic Ellroy... Bleah.

LA lit was supposed to start with West and Chandler and attain greatness. It failed. Fresno contributed more.

Wat is my good buddy but we don't agree on everything, cause

About being a writer. Review how this website dealt with me. Do you want this? Years of achievement dismissed by anonymous character assassins? Suburban housewives who write smut in between coaching soccer telling you you're a bad writer?

No American writer today can or should ignore that we live in a society created by Putin, 4chan, GamerGate, Cville, and 1-6. The treatment I received on this site is the harbinger of a much worse future.

Auden remains relevant:


"Yesterday all the past. The language of size
Spreading to China along the trade-routes; the diffusion
Of the counting-frame and the cromlech;

Yesterday the shadow-reckoning in the sunny climates.
Yesterday the assessment of insurance by cards,
The divination of water; yesterday the invention
Of cartwheels and clocks, the taming of
Horses. Yesterday the bustling world of the navigators.

Yesterday the abolition of fairies and giants,
the fortress like a motionless eagle eyeing the valley,
the chapel built in the forest;

Yesterday the carving of angels and alarming gargoyles;
The trial of heretics among the columns of stone;

Yesterday the theological feuds in the taverns
And the miraculous cure at the fountain;
Yesterday the Sabbath of witches; but to-day the struggle

Yesterday the installation of dynamos and turbines,
The construction of railways in the colonial desert;
Yesterday the classic lecture
On the origin of Mankind. But to-day the struggle.

Yesterday the belief in the absolute value of Greek,
The fall of the curtain upon the death of a hero;
Yesterday the prayer to the sunset
And the adoration of madmen. but to-day the struggle.

As the poet whispers, startled among the pines,
Or where the loose waterfall sings compact, or upright
On the crag by the leaning tower:
"O my vision. O send me the luck of the sailor."

And the investigator peers through his instruments
At the inhuman provinces, the virile bacillus
Or enormous Jupiter finished:
"But the lives of my friends. I inquire. I inquire."

And the poor in their fireless lodgings, dropping the sheets
Of the evening paper: "Our day is our loss. O show us
History the operator, the
Organiser. Time the refreshing river."

And the nations combine each cry, invoking the life
That shapes the individual belly and orders
The private nocturnal terror:
"Did you not found the city state of the sponge,

"Raise the vast military empires of the shark
And the tiger, establish the robin's plucky canton?
Intervene. O descend as a dove or
A furious papa or a mild engineer, but descend."

And the life, if it answers at all, replied from the heart
And the eyes and the lungs, from the shops and squares of the city
"O no, I am not the mover;
Not to-day; not to you. To you, I'm the
"Yes-man, the bar-companion, the easily-duped;
I am whatever you do. I am your vow to be
Good, your humorous story.
I am your business voice. I am your marriage.

"What's your proposal? To build the just city? I will.
I agree. Or is it the suicide pact, the romantic
Death? Very well, I accept, for
I am your choice, your decision...

To-morrow, perhaps the future. The research on fatigue
And the movements of packers; the gradual exploring of all the
Octaves of radiation;
To-morrow the enlarging of consciousness by diet and breathing.

To-morrow the rediscovery of romantic love,
the photographing of ravens; all the fun under
Liberty's masterful shadow;
To-morrow the hour of the pageant-master and the musician,
The beautiful roar of the chorus under the dome;
To-morrow the exchanging of tips on the breeding of terriers,
The eager election of chairmen
By the sudden forest of hands. But to-day the struggle.

To-morrow for the young the poets exploding like bombs,
The walks by the lake, the weeks of perfect communion;
To-morrow the bicycle races
Through the suburbs on summer evenings. But to-day the struggle...
The stars are dead. The animals will not look.
We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and
History to the defeated
May say Alas but cannot help or pardon."

)(( O )...( O ))(

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Well now.

Having been close to the circle of Hank Bukowski -- I'm pondering how to memorialize his associate Nelson Cherry, who I welcomed to San Francisco in about 1974.

Cherry became Cherkovski and wrote this at my urging and with my "political" help:

Hank: The Life of Charles Bukowski https://a.co/d/jdtR4CH

Much of what is written above is extremely obvious.

I am reminded of this:

https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2008/10/15/631688/-

Except that unlike O'Nolan/O'Brien/gCopaleen Buk was utterly incapable of self-reflection or self-parody.

I think also of this:

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2006/10/16/red-sheep

See "Lifeitselfmanship."

Tom Mallon is a friend and author of a book every writer MUST read:

Stolen Words - The Classic Book on Plagiarism https://a.co/d/hFA79Uf

And this book every American MUST read: the only accurate account of JFK's death except for that by J.G. Ballard:

Mrs. Paine's Garage: And the Murder of John F. Kennedy https://a.co/d/1K9OEvP

Now as to the Bukowskian rescript:

iif you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.

Bullshit.

Milton: "Fame is the spur."

Dr. Johnson: "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money."

Neoconservative that I am, I'm sticking with the old Brits over the transplanted kraut in L.A.

if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.

Double bullshit. I do it because I can't not do it. But if I couldn't get great poon, bitchen studly boys, and the occasional wandering siamese cat, ocelot, puma, Maine coon or plain old alleycat to flop for me because I'm famous, what's the point?

if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

More bullshit.

Eliot: "Mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different."

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

Right, Puk. I mean Buk. If you have to beat your woman up in an international TV interview, and are so grossly ugly you only have friends because a poofter named John Martin discovered you as the "white Maya Angelou" (easily checked on Koogle.com, the Jewish literary gossip site -- cf https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Kugel)... You're ready for your chocky milk.

Buk made a fetish of spontaneity, not keeping copies, and not giving a shit about anybody's opinion. Fabaroo. He mastered the meme of indifference to success. But he whored. For fame.

He had a dumb book called SHAKESPEARE NEVER DID THIS.

BUKOWSKI NEVER DID THIS:

I love my Big Domme, my Princess Domna, my editors, my comrades, my friends, my colleagues. I don't consult every one of them about every text. But Big Domme inspires me and Princess Domna curates my work. A writer without friends is common. A writer with friends has... Friends. Hard to explain.

Yes. It's difficult to be a writer. Success is elusive. Real friends are few. Relationships are difficult. Money is scarce.

It is not a joke when I say that having come into my femininity I want to be a bimbo.

http://www.pinkbimboacademy.com/2021/01/10/bimbo-training-the-bimbo-body-the-perfect-bimbo-tits/

A critical observation: the literature of desperate loneliness does not work in El Lay. The buffoonish John Fante, the incontinent Bukowski, the imbecilic Ellroy... Bleah.

LA lit was supposed to start with West and Chandler and attain greatness. It failed. Fresno contributed more.

Wat is my good buddy but we don't agree on everything, cause

About being a writer. Review how this website dealt with me. Do you want this? Years of achievement dismissed by anonymous character assassins? Suburban housewives who write smut in between coaching soccer telling you you're a bad writer?

No American writer today can or should ignore that we live in a society created by Putin, 4chan, GamerGate, Cville, and 1-6. The treatment I received on this site is the harbinger of a much worse future.

Auden remains relevant:


"Yesterday all the past. The language of size
Spreading to China along the trade-routes; the diffusion
Of the counting-frame and the cromlech;

Yesterday the shadow-reckoning in the sunny climates.
Yesterday the assessment of insurance by cards,
The divination of water; yesterday the invention
Of cartwheels and clocks, the taming of
Horses. Yesterday the bustling world of the navigators.

Yesterday the abolition of fairies and giants,
the fortress like a motionless eagle eyeing the valley,
the chapel built in the forest;

Yesterday the carving of angels and alarming gargoyles;
The trial of heretics among the columns of stone;

Yesterday the theological feuds in the taverns
And the miraculous cure at the fountain;
Yesterday the Sabbath of witches; but to-day the struggle

Yesterday the installation of dynamos and turbines,
The construction of railways in the colonial desert;
Yesterday the classic lecture
On the origin of Mankind. But to-day the struggle.

Yesterday the belief in the absolute value of Greek,
The fall of the curtain upon the death of a hero;
Yesterday the prayer to the sunset
And the adoration of madmen. but to-day the struggle.

As the poet whispers, startled among the pines,
Or where the loose waterfall sings compact, or upright
On the crag by the leaning tower:
"O my vision. O send me the luck of the sailor."

And the investigator peers through his instruments
At the inhuman provinces, the virile bacillus
Or enormous Jupiter finished:
"But the lives of my friends. I inquire. I inquire."

And the poor in their fireless lodgings, dropping the sheets
Of the evening paper: "Our day is our loss. O show us
History the operator, the
Organiser. Time the refreshing river."

And the nations combine each cry, invoking the life
That shapes the individual belly and orders
The private nocturnal terror:
"Did you not found the city state of the sponge,

"Raise the vast military empires of the shark
And the tiger, establish the robin's plucky canton?
Intervene. O descend as a dove or
A furious papa or a mild engineer, but descend."

And the life, if it answers at all, replied from the heart
And the eyes and the lungs, from the shops and squares of the city
"O no, I am not the mover;
Not to-day; not to you. To you, I'm the
"Yes-man, the bar-companion, the easily-duped;
I am whatever you do. I am your vow to be
Good, your humorous story.
I am your business voice. I am your marriage.

"What's your proposal? To build the just city? I will.
I agree. Or is it the suicide pact, the romantic
Death? Very well, I accept, for
I am your choice, your decision...

To-morrow, perhaps the future. The research on fatigue
And the movements of packers; the gradual exploring of all the
Octaves of radiation;
To-morrow the enlarging of consciousness by diet and breathing.

To-morrow the rediscovery of romantic love,
the photographing of ravens; all the fun under
Liberty's masterful shadow;
To-morrow the hour of the pageant-master and the musician,
The beautiful roar of the chorus under the dome;
To-morrow the exchanging of tips on the breeding of terriers,
The eager election of chairmen
By the sudden forest of hands. But to-day the struggle.

To-morrow for the young the poets exploding like bombs,
The walks by the lake, the weeks of perfect communion;
To-morrow the bicycle races
Through the suburbs on summer evenings. But to-day the struggle...
The stars are dead. The animals will not look.
We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and
History to the defeated
May say Alas but cannot help or pardon."

)(( O )...( O ))(

Wat is your friend in the simplest and most uncomplicated sense of the word. I know you're not a Chuck fan, and I'm not sure how much I am. I like his irreverence, but he can get samey-samey.


A writer without friends is common. A writer with friends has... Friends. Hard to explain. <<<<< this I get. I don't know why I have friends, but I have many, several good ones, and a couple who would pull a trigger for me.


No, we don't have to agree. One of your most endearing qualities is, you pay attention. So, I listen. Need I say more???