Here are the catchy title posts I’ve been compelled to create after reading some fool-proof tips:
“You’ll want to read this!”
Hey You! Read what I! wrote!
Buy this book and your life is complete
10 Reasons to no longer suffer pain
5 reasons you will rule the Universe one day
2 things to avoid to overcome death
A few good reasons you will live forever
How to avoid pain and gain influential friends-6 Easy steps
Cooking tips and Eternal Life-All in one chapter!
Avoid embarrassing mistakes! Read this now!
Shut up and read!
Instant success! First buy this book!
Want to become part of the 1%? So do I Dammit, buy the damn book!
Sex sells! Learn how to sell sex! Send money!
The Rent is too Damn High!!! Buy the Book!
As usual, the ambivalence I feel between the hated commercial aspect of every corner of our lives, including the idea of filthy, dirty lucre being offered for the precious baby-angel words from this wordsmith’s font of wisdom causes endless angst and palpitations of the heart.
The very idea someone would change my thoughts! If my thought-dreams, could be seen, they’d probably put my head, in a guillotine…Ok, I know I didn’t write that, but what do you expect from a hack?
The problem is…I’m convinced I’m not really good enough to write anything meaningful. I’m not smart enough, or intellectual, or even witty enough. I’m just a blob on the jello mold of society. I think comedian George Gobels summed it up best as he was sitting on the Carson show next to Bob Hope and Dean Martin, and said, “Did you ever get the feeling that the world was a tuxedo and you’re a pair of brown shoes?” I am that pair of brown shoes.
There’s that…and other reasons why I find it hard to submit my writing for review. Not because I think of myself as a genius, but that only genius will do. Part of me believes what Foghorn Leghorn told his protégé: These are all gems I’m tossin’ out, boy!
We have to ask ourselves some tough questions when crack teams of experienced writers nail it down for us amateurs. First question: Why the hell would anyone want to read what I’ve written? The answer is tough reality for a delusional such as myself. No one wants to read my work. Next question: Are you an expert? Hell No!
Next: Can you reduce your writing to the size of a cocktail napkin and pretend that you are in an elevator with someone who looks bored with life and is possibly addicted to crack cocaine? If you can, then you may have a promising future as a writer!
Jeez, at this point just forget about it. I don’t want it, so just leave me alone to curl up in a fetal position and die locked away by myself in a cold, sterile room like the one featured in Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey.