mama doesn't care, but she does. that's how mama do always. mama was gonna go to bed & then she started thinking things & then she was like I should write them down & then her computer was slowly shutting off & she didn't get there in time for it to not shut down & then she had to turn it back on...
she may have lost lots of brain cells in that interval.
she may have looked at justin timberlake photos circa 2008-2011...
cos if she looked at nkotb pix that would just be creepy.
what mama is trying to get at in some weird post-bender pre-bender per-bender way is that she hates the false humilities.
for reals.
these are not deep deep questions, but if you wrote something anything a novel a poetry book a chapbook a short story a poem a flash a micro, whatever & you send it out, then why don't you love it? if you don't love it, then why do you send it out? why do you even let it see the light of day? yes, mama's using cliches in her attempt to get at the bottom of the writer humility schtick, but that's only cos the whole thing's replete with cliches, dontcha think?
why do you ask surprised when someone else loves your writing?
mama wrote her novel Homegirl! & mama loves her novel. mama's not gonna be like, oh, yeah, i wrote this novel, but, really, it's a piece of shit or mama can do better or love me, anyways... mama put her heart & soul or whatever into that shit.
judge mama by her novel & not anything else.
mama thinks more writers need to declare that.
cos if it's not good writing it's shit...
& who cares who you know or how motherfucking cool you are, for reals...
you gonna die alone, anyways, bitches.
that was not what mama was gonna talk about between the bathroom & the computer shutting down...
that is what mama's talking bout now & mama said knock you out.
i'm gonna knock you out,
ryder
Writers always alone. Alone when write, alone (usually) when revise. Alone when they put their baby in the envelope or push the send button, which somehow is even more heart wrenching than when it disappears down the chute into the mail box, irretrievable. Alone when the rejection letters or (Joy!) acceptance letters come, alone when the sample copy and the itty bitty check comes. No wonder so many writers are depressed, drunken dopers, and all the rest have to watch their sanity like a parent watching a bad seed kid.
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