How do I become “more of a writer”? Well, I guess I should write more, right? But how do I do that? I already wrote like a million words this year. I even finished my second book–spent two years on it–only to conclude on the seven billionth read-through that maybe I shouldn’t put the damn book out. The Drifter Chronicles (my first book) was so good (at least I think it was)… That the second volume has to be even better. But is it? It’s kinda dark… and scary. So after two years of working on it, I am back and forth as to whether or not I want to let the world know what a goddam piece of shit I was at that point in my life.
With the first book, people called me and said:
“awww… Are you okay?”
“Yeah that was like twenty years ago that shit happened to me, Grandma.”
“Okay sweetie, I just want to make sure you’re not getting arrested anymore. You’re not, are you?”
Dammit woman, I said I’m fuckin 34 and that shit all happened when I was like fourteen and sixteen or whatever. Then I imagined what she might call and say to me if she finished the second one (I already gave her the first sixty pages).
“Do you like it? I”m trying to make it a bit more funny.”
“Oh. Well, you should make it funny then.”
Anyway, if I were to send her the other three-hundred and forty pages, jeez, she may never forgive me. Is this about my grandma? Hmm… I just realized that. No, probably not. I wasn’t a great person at many moments in life… that second volume of The Drifter Chronicles probably being the worst of me.
Then there was my old blog–Scrambled Gregs. I killed that shit last night, no more Scrambled Gregs. I’ll tell you why. Cause it was about me bangin Brazilians and sleeping my way across South America and selling drugs with cash taped to my balls and stealin shit from bookstores. I wrote about a damn threesome for fuck’s sake.
You know how that Russian dude looked at me when he was considering hiring me to be his Marketing Director? He was lookin at me like: I read your stories you piece of American trash.
SIDE NOTE: He offered me the job anyway, but I didn’t take it cause I swear he was gonna break my bones if I didn’t get us ranking on the first page of Google by next week.
Point is, I didn’t think anyone would read that shit, but a lot of people read it. Especially if they were stalking me online. Before I had my girlfriend, chicks would find it and be like…
“Uh… So if we have sex are you gonna write about it?”
Maybe, I thought. If it’s good sex. But I didn’t say that. I’d just say something like: “Nah. Unless I should.”
The point is, I’m at another milestone of my life and I don’t like to have my past alongside my present. So I thought, how do I start a “new me”? How do I become more of a “writer” and less of a… well, jackass. Well, I should write every day. That’s a starting point. Maybe start a new blog and get serious about it. Don’t worry about SEO. Don’t worry about sticking to a topic. Just fucking write. And don’t stop.
But there are some problems with blogging every day nowadays. I need to make sure the featured image is reflective of the post. I need to scour through stock photos before I post anything. Then I need to crop and resize the image so it doesn’t look funny on mobile. Then I think: wait, I’m a sketch artist. I should sketch a drawing for this story, it would be a better story that way.
Then all of a sudden it’s a week later and I don’t even have all the pieces to the post done. Then I look at the homepage. People can’t see this shit, I think to myself. It’s not well designed. Fuck. I need a logo. And I need to make that button lead somewhere. But I don’t need a button, I think to myself. But the WordPress theme has a fucking button! USE IT! IT MIGHT MAKE YOUR LIFE AMAZING! But for what!? Then I get uncertain and blogging every day quickly becomes creating a website every day and making sure every page the WordPress theme has given me is on brand. That’s exhausting.
So I came up with a solution.
Find a theme that only has text. Nothing else. No pages, no feature images, no buttons, no calls to action, no nothing. Just fucking text. Now I can write every single day without the burden of having to think of some great photo or draw some amazing illustration. I don’t plan on making this an online diary though. That shit is boring. I need to be prolific; Iconoclastic. I need to prove to
the world myself that I’m not just a sober high school dropout that writes sex articles for Playboy. There’s more to me. Although I will admit, this does sound like a damn diary post.
So if you’d to read my diary, next time you visit the blog, just subscribe to the push notification. It’s a great way to follow me, if you want to. And you never know, I might say some prolific shit that alters your day.