How to Write Best-Selling Fiction in the 21st Century

In the old days, the books that sold best were either biographies of Abraham Lincoln or books about doctors and/or dogs. The joke then was that the best-selling book of all time would be a theoretical tome titled, “Lincoln’s Doctor’s Dog.”

Times have changed. The guy who eventually wrote a book called “Lincoln’s Doctor’s Dog” can’t even get four stars on Amazon.

The lesson here is that 21st-century writers must be much more creative to get people’s attention, especially when it comes to their main characters. A mere doctor will no longer do; he or she must have some other compelling qualities. To sell books in today’s competitive marketplace, a doctor would also have to be a deranged psychopath who harvests the organs of his patients, grounds them up into paint, and uses it to create art that sells for millions. Or she’d have to specialize in a form of healing that attracts only male customers, then suck their blood and send their souls into the fiery pits of hell. And if the doctor has a dog, it had better transform at the full moon into a hairy fanged beast that feeds on the homeless or roams the night inseminating the neighborhood dogs with his demon seed as part of a master plot to vanquish the human race.

Or something along those lines.

The point is, no one wants to read about good people doing good work anymore. They want to read about sick lunatics who do unspeakable things, supernatural creatures who prey on human weakness, psychotic evil-doers who wreak apocalyptic mayhem wherever they go, and beings who have bad skin and look dead—but aren’t!

Teenagers, in other words.

Teenage vampires are all the rage, of course, as are teenage werewolves, zombies, and succubi. For a while there, all you had to do in order to sell a few million copies of a book was fill it with lithe teenage mutants and make them have sex with each other. That’s been done to death, though, in every combination possible, so publishing companies are now worried that their goldmine of deviant teenage sex may be tapped out. To aspiring writers out there, that means opportunity.

The big question no one can answer is: What type of crazed teenage stereotype does the zeitgeist want next?

You could go old school and create a teenage blob that consumes everything in its path, but that already applies to most teenage boys in America. Or you could create a teenager from outer space who is ten times smarter than everyone else—but again, that basically describes every high-achieving teenage girl in the country. You could of course try making these two character types have sex with each other, but does the world really need anymore super-intelligent blob-men? We already have Chris Christie, after all, so maybe we should stop there.

People make fun of Stephanie Meyer, author of the beloved Twilight series, but the truth is, it’s difficult to come up with a plausible teenage monster that people will like. The bigger problem is that teenagers themselves are not very interesting, and turning them into monsters only makes them marginally more interesting. So writers who want to work in this genre have their work cut out for them.

If bloodsucking teenage hooligans aren’t your thing, there’s always the option of inventing a super-smart detective who solves crimes either by his superior powers of deduction, or through the means of special power that allows him or her to apprehend criminals no one else can catch.

All such detectives are based on the great Sherlock Holmes, of course, so be sure to study your Arthur Conan Doyle. And if you feel the need to give your detective a superpower, like the ability to read minds, be careful. On the TV show “The Listener,” for instance, the protagonist’s superpower is an uncanny ability to “hear” the criminal confess what he did and why—a skill that obviously negates the need for any actual detective work. The problem is, this guy can solve just about any crime in minutes, but the show lasts an hour. If you’re the writer, that means you have to fill the other 58 minutes of the show with something else. Snarky detective wise-cracking only goes so far, and the back-story of a mind-reader is usually tragic, especially in relationships, where hiding what you’re really thinking is of paramount importance.

All I’m saying is, if you are a writer who wants to sell a lot of books these days, the competition is stiff. Books about Abraham Lincoln still sell, of course, but they typically require lots of research, and that takes time. It’s much more efficient to sit down, put your thinking cap on, and try to come up with some kind of creepy teen-sex fantasy that no one has tried before.

And just so you know, I’m already working on a novel about a troupe of runaway teenage clowns who suck the happiness out of their audience’s souls and send them back out into the world, empty and hopeless, while they stay back in their tent and have drug-fueled clown orgies. My only concern is that it is too realistic. I’ve raised a teenager, so I know what it’s like. I also know that people don’t want to read about real life—they want to escape into a fictional world where some of those sex-crazed teen psychopaths die. I’m thinking maybe I’ll have a few of my characters contract some sort of sad-clown disease, or have them run into a band of roving gypsies who must sacrifice a clown baby to their god every month to ward off depression.  

I don’t know—I’m still working on it.  Trust me, writing best-selling fiction isn’t as easy as it looks.

The Relationship Between Art and Mental Illness

Today’s topic is a serious one: the relationship between art and mental illness. If you look at history (and I have looked at it more than once), you’ll find that a huge majority of the world’s masterpieces in art, literature, theater, and music were created by people who had some sort of mental illness. An essential part of the creative process, it seems, is losing your marbles, then wasting a few years wondering what marbles are and why it matters whether you can find them again or not.

The question no one asks is, if so many of the world’s great works of art, literature, and music are the by-product of mental illness, why does anyone pay attention to them? Society doesn’t value anything else mentally ill people do, so why should we care about the scrawls and scribbles and squeaks of a bunch of mental misfits?

Once the question is asked, the answer is obvious: We absolutely should NOT care.

After all, isn’t it alarming to think that so much great art has been (and continues to be) created by people who are, to use the clinical term, bat-shit crazy? Furthermore, what does it say about a society when the ravings of a lunatic are preferred over the sensible fact-finding of the local newspaper? How did it come to pass that the straightforward prose of a plumber’s manual is viewed as inferior to the addled ramblings of a schizophrenic poet? And why does a self-mutilating depressive like Vincent Van Gogh get so much attention when my Aunt Charlotte—as cheerful and amiable a doodler of flowers as there ever was—can’t even get gallery owners to return her phone calls?

Once the veil is lifted, it’s impossible not to see how society is being corrupted and poisoned by the mentally ill. Museums and bookstores everywhere are filled with the by-products of their diseased brainpans. This means that millions of people each year are exposed to mental illness, and, because mental illness can be contagious, many of these people become mentally ill themselves.

The signs of mental-illness exposure are everywhere, if you know what to look for: People who have a sudden appreciation for the “beauty” of the natural world; children who start asking questions about “racial equality” and “fairness”; people who are insufferably tolerant of other people’s religious practices and beliefs; a spontaneous interest in alternative “perspectives”; a bizarre level of empathy for people one doesn’t personally know; adults who don’t follow professional sports; sudden cravings for non-American food; a desire to attend gallery openings and art fairs; believing that public sculptures foster “community,” “respect,” and “understanding”; people who sing on the bus; the wearing of wacky outfits for no practical reason; laughing at irony; decorating one's desk space to make it look more "creative"; quitting a job to go do something more "meaningful"; getting a tattoo. The list goes on. 

The point is, this whole disgusting mess is the result of people being unwittingly exposed to mental illness through the irresponsible distribution of art, literature, and music in our society, particularly in our museums and schools. Clearly, something must be done.

That’s why I am drafting a Congressional proposal to have all the artwork in the nation’s museums removed and re-evaluated for indications of mental illness. I am also proposing that all the books in our public libraries be re-catalogued according to the mental stability of their authors, and all the music polluting our nation’s airwaves and Internet streams silenced until the mental fitness of all the musicians involved can be evaluated, and every one of them tested for consumption of illegal drugs, subversive literature, or any other form of mental contraband.

It may take some time, but cleansing the nation of this plague is essential if we want to live in a saner, more reasonable world. Please, join me in the fight to restore mental health as the cornerstone of American democracy.

Vote Trump in 2016!

Ignore Us Geniuses at Your Peril

One of the burdens of genius is finding tactful ways to let other people know that their ideas and opinions are complete bullshit.

This is difficult for two reasons. First, true geniuses are often misunderstood, so they must speak with a clarity and precision that most people find irritating. And two, most people cannot smell the stink of their own mental sewage, so they would rather breathe their own fetid fumes than step up to the oxygen bar of genius and take a big, purifying whiff of truth.

I have been a genius my entire life, so I can personally attest to the fact that it is no fun to be shunned, like Galileo, by your fellow man, or dismissed as a crank, like Charles Manson, or told, by your psychiatrist, that you should just shut up and take your medication before the demons come back.

From where I sit, on my mental mountaintop, it looks like as if the entire world is trapped in a kind of Stockholm syndrome of stupidity. Held captive by multinational media conglomerates, fed a steady diet of mediocrity, and beaten into submission by constant viewing, night after night, of American Ninja Warrior and the X Factor, the American public has come to identify with its abusers and, as a survival tactic, flips meekly through the Netflix catalogue in search of one more series it can binge-watch before having to return to the entertainment hell of network television.

I have been warning people of this intellectual apocalypse for some time, of course, and have written extensively about the dangers of not reading what I write. But, because I have been categorized as a “genius,” people tend to ignore my warnings and go on with their lives as if nothing is wrong.

On those occasions when I have taken to the street with my message, abandoning the confines of the printed page for the freedom of the public square, the crowds have been receptive. However, mothers with small children, no doubt afraid that my message will have undue influence on their wee ones, often cross to the other side of the street when they see me. Which is a pity, because altering the minds of the young is the first step toward altering the mind of society, which is the first step toward getting people to appreciate how I saw all of this coming but no one listened, and to understand that when the shit hits the fan, don’t come running to me, because it’ll be too late. I’ll be in the Caribbean by then, sipping rum punches and watching the apocalypse from a beach chair in the Bahamas.

What I’m trying to say, I guess, is that the burden of being right all the time is a heavy one. It is a burden geniuses carry, largely unnoticed and unrecognized, so that other people can live their pathetic lives, unencumbered by the weight and gravity of inconvenient truths. Ignore us if you dare—hey, it’s a free country (for now). But when things really go off the rails—when, say, Donald Trump is elected president, or The Dome comes back for a fourth season, or it turns out that gluten is good for you after all—don’t come running to us.

We’re outta here.

How to Look as Smart as a Writer

Many ordinary people want to know why writers look so intelligent. On their book covers, writers look amazingly intense and focused, as if their brains are doing all kinds of smart, insightful things while they’re staring into the camera. It’s as if, as soon as the camera shutter clicks, the writer is going to grab a piece of paper and scribble down a few lines of inspired brilliance, such as “get bananas and milk,” or “plant azaleas.” And when the average person meets a writer at a party, they are often overwhelmed by the aura of intelligence writers project. It’s like a smell (and, to be fair, sometimes it is a smell) that envelops the writer and says to everyone at the party, “I am the smartest person in the room.”

What many regular people want to know is how they can project that kind of intellectual confidence without actually having to write anything. Because let’s face it, agonizing over ideas, characters, sentence constructions and page numbers is not everyone’s cup of tea. Which is why I’m here to help.

There are several tricks and shortcuts stupid people can use to appear more intelligent. For instance, if someone approaches you at a party and says something intelligent-sounding like, “They’re running low on beer,” all you have to do in order to appear even more intelligent is say, “ARE they?”

The reason this sounds so smart is that it implies you know something the other person doesn’t—like where the rest of the beer is. But it also lets the other person know that you’re not going to give up that information easily, because frankly, you think he is an idiot for thinking that the beer supply is actually running low. Heck, it’s only nine o’clock. Stunned by your apparent omniscience, and wracked with insecurity over his own inability to locate the extra beer stash, this poor sap will scurry away in search of more lager, convinced that you are wiser and smarter than he will ever be.

What stupid people need to understand is that smart people, as a rule, never answer questions. Rather, they get people to answer their own questions. If you were a writer and someone asked you, “What color is Donald Trump’s hair?,” you would not say, “Charismatic Phlegm.” Instead, you would say, “Interesting question. What color would you say it is?”

Note that all you’ve really done is ask the person’s question back at them. The reason this works so well is that most people would rather answer their own questions anyway. As a rule, people don’t really want to know what you think; they want you to know what they think. Giving them the chance to tell you is the intelligent person’s way of saying, “That’s such a stupid question, I’m going to let you answer it.”

On those rare occasions when a writer is faced with a question they don’t know the answer to, their fail-safe phrase is, “It depends.” This works in all kinds of situations because it suggests that there are complexities to the question that no one else has considered. If you, as a stupid person, don’t actually know what those complexities are, you can follow up any “it depends” with the phrase, “but I don’t have to tell you that!” This makes the other person think they should already know what you’re talking about. Few people are smart enough to admit when they don’t know something, so invoking a well-timed “it depends” is a safe bet in most crowds.

Back in the day, all a person had to do in order to appear more intelligent was wear a pair of glasses. But now, even stupid people wear glasses, so other tactics must be employed. Practice the strategies I’ve explained above and people will immediately start suspecting that you are smarter than you appear.

They may even mistake you for a writer.

Artist Dilemma #24: The Curse of Creativity

People who do not use their imagination for a living often wonder what the “creative urge” feels like, and how creative people harness it. They also wonder why creative people even bother, when so much more money can be made doing just about anything else. There is a paradox here, one that causes creative people to think, “Why the hell am I doing this?” and non-creative people to wonder, “Why don’t those idiots just join a brokerage firm?”

The confusion is understandable. If you compare the average income of an investment banker to that of an artist, it’s clear that society values the activities of the investment banker over the artist by a factor of about 100,000 to 1. That means that every time an investment banker twitches his finger over a computer keyboard, it’s 100,000 times more valuable to culture and civilization than anything an artist does with their hands. By comparison, the value of an artist’s contribution to society is so miniscule that it’s basically meaningless.

Which leads us to the mysteries of the “creative urge.” Why create anything, after all, when you can be contributing to the social good by accumulating mountains of glorious cash?

Since they don’t have enough imagination to fathom an answer to this question, non-creative people have invented a bizarre mythology about the rewards of creativity. To wit: They believe that creating something—anything—must be so satisfying to the human soul—indeed so much fun—that people are willing to sacrifice the joys of money-making in order to experience it. Even more bizarre, non-creative people often convince themselves that creative people lead more “meaningful” lives because they are doing what they are “meant” to do, rather than suffering the dull drudgery of ridiculous wealth. At parties, after a few drinks, non-creatives can even be heard bemoaning their massive fortunes and wondering what their lives might have been like if they just had the courage to abandon the needs of society and follow their “bliss,” rather than commit their lives to the greater economic good. Just once in their lives they would like to feel “inspired” to do something artistic, they think, rather than sneer at it because the value proposition is so absurd.

It’s a sad spectacle—and a totally unnecessary one. Because if a fabulously wealthy non-creative person ever actually felt the “urge” to create something, they would be even more mystified than they already are.  

What non-creative people don’t understand is that artists don’t harness the urge to create—it harnesses them. It grabs the artist, binds their legs and hands, then snakes its way up around their throat and chokes them until they agree to its insane demands. There is terror involved, along with an involuntary loosening of the bowels and frequent cries for mercy. There is nothing fun about it. There is only the sickening realization that if you do not comply, if you struggle and fight—by becoming a lawyer, say, or graphic designer—you will doom yourself to a hellish purgatory of middle-class stability. Those who win the fight go on to drive Jettas and coach their child’s soccer team. Those who don’t make up a song, paint a picture, write a poem, put on a play, or otherwise waste their time, knowing full well that what they are doing has no social value whatsoever.

In their heart of hearts, of course, creative people wish they could make a more meaningful, seven-figure contribution to society. But they can’t, because the demon “urge” has them by the neck and will not let go. There is nothing enviable or romantic about it. Creativity is like cancer—if it infects you, you must deal with it, whether you want to or not, and it doesn’t really give a shit if you die in the process.

But try you must, because there is nothing else to do, since fate has not given you a choice. If it had, you would of course chosen a more socially productive path. But it didn’t, so you must resign yourself to the fact that you will never contribute as much to society as the world’s bankers, brokers, and venture capitalists. Compared to them, you are just a blood-sucking cultural parasite. But that’s okay. Maybe in your next life you’ll be lucky enough to have a private jet and a super-PAC, and do something with your life that has a quantifiable purpose and value.

In the meantime, you are cursed with the urge, and there is nothing else to do but create something, whether you want to or not. 

What Other Jobs Can Writers Do?

One of the challenges of being a writer is that there are no more jobs for writers, just as there are no more jobs for switchboard operators, sages, or people who were once pretty good at ping pong. Many of the jobs writers used to have—journalist, reporter, copywriter, book reviewer, speechwriter, pamphleteer—are now outsourced to robots and millennials, which means the world is crawling with unemployed and unemployable ex-writers who, released from the obligation to entertain and inform people for the sake of a paycheck, are free to write whatever they want.

This is a dangerous situation.

Without the threat of a disapproving corporate overlord to reign in their truth-telling impulses, writers are free to say what they think—and writers who have nothing left to lose are capitalism’s worst nightmare.

When writers start thinking, whole societies can crumble and turn to dust overnight. Trust me, Marx didn’t invent communism because he was happy about his career trajectory. Indeed, wars and bombs and terrorists aren’t the biggest threat to the capitalist house of cards that is modern-day America—it’s a writer who hasn’t quite yet articulated the “idea” that everyone is already sort-of thinking, but is getting pretty close, because his or her livelihood no longer depends on keeping their mouth shut.

The last thing this country needs is more writers with too much time on their hands. Left to their own devices, writers are much more likely to write something meaningful, important, or—more dangerous still—inspired. And then where will we be?

Think of it: A world without wizards and werewolves and vampires; no more stories about fad diets, beauty aids, or celebrities; a sudden absence of information on how to have more powerful orgasms. No more fashion advice, food blogs, or stress-busting workout strategies. No way to find out how to keep your abs hard or turn your closet into a gift-wrapping room. No handy baking tips or advice on how to use all that chard you planted in May.

Instead, imagine the horror of a world filled with even more thoughtful essays on the many ways in which the world is going to shit. What if the only things available to read on the Internet were ten-thousand-word New Yorker stories and long, winding “think” pieces that never get to the point? Do you really want to live in a country awash in exhaustive, in-depth analyses of everything?

I didn’t think so.

As a matter of national security, then, it’s important that we devise new ways for writers to once again be productive, non-disruptive members of society. Otherwise, civilization as we know it may soon come to a deceptively well-written end.

Here are a few suggestions:

Golf Guide: One thing professional golfers have that amateur golfers lack is people analyzing and discussing every shot they make. To solve this problem, well-to-do golfers could hire writers to follow them on the course and record every nuance of their round for posterity. After the round, the golfer would receive a detailed summary and expert analysis of each hole, allowing the golfer to relive the glory of each shot over and over again.

Horoscopist: Most horoscopes are too short, insipid, and general to be of any real use. Why not hire a writer to craft a highly personalized, intensively researched, and only slightly less bogus daily horoscope for your spiritually entertaining pleasure? For an extra ten bucks an hour, most writers are more than willing to shelve their cynicism and write whatever you want, however you want it. Sample prediction: It’s going to be a fabulous day, and you’re the sun at its center!

Likeability Coach: Everyone wishes they were wittier and more charming in social situations. A professional writer can help turn your awkwardness into awesomeness, the same way I just did in the first half of this sentence. Never be at a loss for words again. Better yet, have the right words on the tip of your tongue when you really need them.

Anger Management Consultant: Ever found yourself in a protracted fight with your partner or spouse, and had trouble keeping track of all the arguments swirling in your head about why they’re so wrong and you’re oh-so-right? An Anger Management Consultant can help organize and craft your arguments until each one is a soul-piercing masterpiece of irrefutable truth. With a professional writer on your side, you never have to lose an argument again.

Shopping Helper: These days, it’s hard to keep up with which foods from what company are really organic, free-range, GMO-less, super-natural mega-foods blessed by the Creator himself. But if you employ an out-of-work reporter to walk down the aisle twenty feet in front of you, they can use their phone to do the research you don’t have time for, and help ensure that you’re making the most responsible, planet-friendly buying decisions possible.

Holiday HandyWriter: Most family get-togethers follow familiar and quite predictable patterns of dysfunction. But why go into the holidays unarmed? A much better solution to the annual family drama is to hire a professional writer sometime in October. In a matter of weeks, they can provide you with an entire arsenal of witty, conflict-deflecting retorts tailored to address any possible grievance that might come up. Thus prepared, you can enjoy your holiday gatherings secure in the knowledge that there is no way your family is going to get to you this year—or any year, ever again.

These are just a few of the possible jobs writers could do. And please, feel free to contribute your own ideas.

The most important thing to remember is that, if writers were hired to do these kinds of jobs, they wouldn’t be sitting around trying to figure out how to change “the system” or spark some kind of cockamamie “revolution.” And that’s good news for everyone.

The Writer's Toolkit: How to Deal with Rejection

All writers must learn to deal with rejection. That’s because more than half of a writer’s mail is condescending notes from ignorant editors informing them that their work does not fit the “needs” of the publisher, and that this outright rejection, while regrettable, is in no way a judgment on the quality of your work or the disturbing nature of your subject matter.

The hell it isn’t.

Every writer who gets a rejection notice—that is, all writers, everywhere—thinks the same thing: Fucking idiots. They obviously have no idea who they’re dealing with here, because they can’t recognize pure genius when it’s staring them in the face! Did they even read it? Obviously not, because the proof is right here in my hands! If they’d read it, they wouldn’t have sent me one of their sorry-sounding form rejection letters—because, as anyone who reads what I wrote can plainly see, its brilliance is self-evident. I shouldn’t have to explain how extraordinarily awesome my work is—they should just know! Philistines! They have no idea how close I am to snapping, or they wouldn’t provoke me like this!

 It’s a universal reaction. And, after the initial shock, many writers go through a kind of cleansing ritual to get themselves back on track. Maybe they get drunk. Or they hit the gym. Or go fishing. Or go for a long drive without telling anyone. It doesn’t really matter what you do. The important thing to remember is that in order to survive as a writer, one has to find healthy, effective ways to deal with constant rejection by incompetent morons.

Here’s my ritual:

First, I dig a small hole in the yard and stand last year’s Christmas tree in it. Then I dress it up as the editor who rejected me. Most editors are short, fat people with small, pointy heads, so an old Christmas tree works great for this. I put a Twins cap on top of the tree to identify said editor as a loser. I cut out a pair of paper googly eyes and stick them on a couple of branches. I use pruning shears to cut out a hole where the editor’s heart should be. Then I grab a flamethrower, laugh, and torch my editor-in-effigy with a few well-aimed blasts of fire.

My flamethrower of choice is the mighty Xmatter X15, because it has four times the throw pressure of a normal flamethrower (4,000 psi, for you flame-tossing geeks), and it comes with three different wand tips, as well as an extra CO2 tank, so you can always be ready when the “need” strikes. Remember: Whenever your work doesn’t meet their needs, you have to meet your own. And trust me, nothing makes you feel better quite like torching a fat, heartless editor with two-thousand degrees of flaming mayhem.

Other writers have their methods of dealing with rejection, I’m sure. But this is how I deal with mine—and why, at Christmas, I buy forty or so trees every year at the local YMCA lot. Sometimes I run out by July and have to improvise, which is why I’m seriously considering buying a Christmas tree farm next year. In the offseason, I’m thinking of starting a retreat for rejected writers, because every writer in the world would be a potential customer.

More info on the Catharsis Christmas Tree Farm will be available soon. 

Is the Writer's Life for You?

I run into people every day—at the track, in the casino, around the pool—who think it would be great to live the writer’s life. They look at me and think: really, how hard can it be?

It would be fun, they think, to sit around and smoke cigarettes all day and say cynically witty things that are re-Tweeted on Facebook and attributed to the wrong person. They want to know what it’s like to walk into a Barnes & Noble and see your book piled by the dozens in the discount section for 70 percent off. They envy the idea of being a respected “intellectual” whose ideas are ignored by millions. Lying around the pool, eyes closed, agonizing over that next chapter—it all sounds so romantic to them. And wiggling their fingers over a keyboard for a few hours a day seems to them like a painless way to both make millions and maintain their finger dexterity well into old age.

And so, they think, the writer’s life is for them.

Unfortunately, what these people don’t know about the writer’s life could easily fill a book they are not writing. I know this because I am a writer, and I’m willing to trade lives with just about anybody.

Donald Trump, for instance. I’d trade lives with The Donald in a heartbeat. Bill Gates is living a life I’d like to have, too, although I hear Melinda can be a handful sometimes. I’d trade lives with Anthony Bourdain, too, because eating and drinking and saying sarcastic things about other people on national television sounds like a hoot. I wouldn’t mind being a supermodel, either, or Taylor Swift. There’s a woman in my building who is always smiling, and sometimes I think it would be worth trading lives with her just to see why she’s so happy all the time. My fear, of course, is that it’s the result of over-medication, but those are the chances you take when you trade lives with people.

Irony abounds, of course. People look at me and think, hey, wouldn’t it be great to be that guy? And here I am, that guy, thinking hey, wouldn’t it be great to be somebody—anybody—else?

Why is that?

Well, most people think the writing profession is all about getting up at noon, chugging a fifth of Jack Daniels, sitting down, and waiting for the inspiration to flow. But nothing could be further from the truth. Many writers sleep all day and chug their fifth of JD at night. Some get up very early and have their JD over cereal. Others use their JD to wash down a handful of amphetamines, and still others do not drink JD at all—they rely on various hallucinogens and narcotics to get their creative juices flowing. Every writer is different; you have to find out what works for you, and that can take years.

People who do not struggle with the terror of the blank page tend to think all they’d have to do to be a writer is wake up early, make a pot of strong coffee and start typing. Unfortunately, that’s the sort of misconception that leads to such literary tragedies as Fifty Shades of Grey and the whole Twilight series. Lame S&M fantasies and high schools full of teenage vampires are the sort of thing that happens when people try to write using nothing but coffee and a laptop. Such calamities also lead other people to believe that they too could lead a writer’s life, if only they could muster the courage to visit their nearest Starbuck’s and hog a table all day.

Nobody needs a license to write, but they should. As is true with so many other occupations, writing should be left to the professionals. Allowing amateurs to lead a writer’s life is a mistake. Amateurs who think the writer’s life is for them should trade lives with a writer first to see if it really is. But be forewarned, the writer they trade with may not want to give their life back, in which case they’d be stuck with no choice but to write for a living.

Goodbye Starbuck’s, hello Liquor Barn. 

Blood on the Stacks: The Great Bleeder Cover Controversy

Much has been said—in print, on talk shows, at the White House—about the use of blood on the cover of my short-story collection, The Bleeder. It has even been suggested that I chose blood—over, say, strawberry jam—to titillate the curiosity of people whose lust for violence is so intense that it guides their book-buying decisions.

I’d like to address a few of these accusations now:

First, the idea that I used blood imagery as a way of enticing readers fond of murder and mayhem is ridiculous. Yes, it is true that the American people love entertainment that features spurting blood and gratuitous torture, but if I wanted to create a cover image that truly reflects our great nation’s appetite for violence, I would have bathed the thing in red and thrown in a few chunks of flesh and brain matter, to let people know that the killing was done with a shotgun, at close range. As it is, all I did was use a few drops of blood—a level of restraint that several critics in the blood-lust community have deemed “insufficient.”

Second, some readers have expressed concern that the blood on the cover is mine. It is not. As I have said many times, I am dedicated to my work, but not that dedicated. The blood on the cover is actually that of my art director, who volunteered her vein juice because she claimed it was an all-American shade of red (as opposed to my blood, which has a strange, greenish tint to it). My gratitude goes out to her, because we used a lot more than a few drops of her blood. I am a perfectionist, so I insisted that she photograph several hundred blood-drop dispersion patterns to make sure we got the best possible one. Not to worry, though: The paramedics said she could have lost another pint or two of blood and still survived without much brain damage.

Third, as I have explained many times, the blood on the cover is a metaphor. Inevitably, however, some wiseass with a master’s degree stands up at my readings and asks, “A metaphor for what?”

Let’s clear that up once and for all. It is, of course, a metaphor for—what else?—blood! I mean, how literal do I have to get? It’s not like I put the New York Times crossword puzzle on the cover to mystify people. No, I put blood on the cover because the story after which the collection is based has some blood in it, and I thought—in the British accent that my thoughts sometimes adopt—what a bloody marvelous idea! Simply put, using drops of blood as a metaphor for drops of blood is the sort of layered imagery that makes The Bleeder such a highly regarded work of literary genius.

Fourth, it should be obvious to everyone that if blood were not on the cover, I would have to call the collection something else. It wouldn’t make much sense to call a book The Bleeder if there were a bunch of butterflies flitting around on cover, now would it? And if there were a horse or a monkey or a sailboat on the cover, calling the book The Bleeder would have just confused people. They might have thought something bad happened on that sailboat, or that the monkey was psychotic and murdered a team of scientists. A few drops of blood gets the message across in the most straight-forward way possible—someone in the book loses a few drops of blood. No big deal. Nothing a wad of Kleenex can’t handle. Nothing to get worked up about. What kind of sick, twisted mind immediately assumes that blood equals murder? Statistically speaking, most blood loss has nothing to do with murder. Car accidents, power-tool mishaps, surgical procedures, cut feet, odd slips of a kitchen knife—these account for most of the blood loss in this country.

The fact is, American literature has been mired in the muck of sensationalism for far too long. It my sincere hope that the level of discourse over the cover image of my next book, The Shitter, is a bit more sophisticated.

Influencing Public Opinion: It’s Part of the Job

Occasionally, reporters in desperate need of a quote will call me to comment upon world affairs. As a writer, my role as a “public intellectual” requires me to answer their questions, so that the public hears a range of diverse and confusing perspectives upon which to base their own snap judgments and fatuous, ill-informed opinions. I am, of course, always willing to oblige.

Since my comments appear in publications all over the world, it is difficult for readers to keep up with the breadth of my discourse on various topics. So, as a public service, I have collected my most recent quotes here, so that my readers may better understand where I stand on important issues of the day.

Q: Do you think the Minnesota dentist who shot Cecil the lion should be punished?

Me: I think he should get back to work. I have a monster cavity that’s killing me. He said he’d only be gone a week, and now it’s been more like three. (Star Tribune, Aug. 2, 2015)

Q: Do you believe in climate change?

Me: No, I believe nature is out to get me. Why, just the other day I was playing golf and a thunderstorm appeared out of nowhere. I could have been killed. It felt personal. (Science Journal, July, 2015.)

Q: Do you think Donald Trump is qualified to be president?

Me: Of course. He’s rich and stupid and says the sorts of things presidents say, like “You’re fired!” and “Mexicans are criminals,” and “Yeah, I’d tap my daughter.” And besides, who better to manage the American financial system than a man who runs a casino? (Washington Post, July 4, 2015)

Q: What advice can you offer today’s college graduates?

Me: My advice to young graduates is to forget everything you’ve learned over the past seven years (i.e., party as necessary), and follow your passions wherever they may lead. You can always get a job after rehab, and day-care facilities for single parents are excellent these days. (Journal of Higher Education, June, 2015)

Q: What you think of the Iran nuclear deal?

Me: What deal? We made a deal with the Iranians? That’s impossible. Where did you hear this? Don’t you check your sources before calling people like me? Oh, I get it. Ha, ha. This is a trick question. Nice try, but I’m not an idiot. Next question. (New York Times, July 26, 2015)

 Q: When it comes to free speech, do you think corporations should be thought of as people?

Me: When it comes to free speech, I don’t even think people should be thought of as people. Have you read some of the stuff so-called “people” have said in the “comments” section of my blog? At the very least, companies usually send you a letter before they threaten to sue you. Not those savages. (Bloomberg News, June 28, 2015)

Q:Regarding the future of humanity, are you a “glass half full” or “glass half empty” kind of guy?

Me: In general, I’m a “the glass is twice as big as it needs to be” kind of guy. But if we’ve gotten to the point where people like you are asking people like me questions like that, we’re definitely doomed. (Science Journal, May, 2105)

Q: What do you think of Pope Francis?

Me: I like him. He doesn’t make me feel dirty, like some other clergymen I’ve known. He tries a little too hard with the whole “compassion for the poor” thing, but you have to hand it to the guy—the cone hat looks good on him. (Catholic Digest, June, 2015)

Q: Why do you want your book, The Bleeder, banned from public schools and libraries?

Me: Because it’s a filthy, disgusting book full of sex and drugs and dangerous, radical ideas. Teenagers, especially, should be prohibited from getting their hands on it, because it contains secret information only adults should know. It’s a dangerous, dangerous book that, in the wrongs hands, could lead to . . . certain unmentionable types of behavior. A complete and widely publicized ban is the only way to keep our children safe. (Library Journal, May, 2015)

—That’s all for now. I’ll post more items as they come in.