The Salamander

A lot of people romanticize writers and the craft of writing. Writers are supposed to be sensitive souls privy to the strange cosmic forces that shape the universe. Writers are supposed to be philosopher-poets, mysterious and wise. Writers are supposed to be sorcerers who turn the stuff of dreams into words. At the very least, non-writers, or those who want to be writers themselves, envy professional writers because writing seems like a job that entails no hard work in the nine-to-five sense of that word. Outsiders think writers are cerebral cosmonauts who get paid for the things that appear magically inside their heads… the bizarre gifts of the invisible muses.

I say fuck that. The people most responsible for this quasi-cosmic view of writing are writers themselves. Here’s the straight dope, folks: there’s no sorcery behind it. Writers have a skill as mundane as cooking or carpentry. Gawd, but I’m sick and tired of writers who present the craft as some sort of magical act that requires power beyond those of mortal men. A writer who talks about inspiration, writer’s block, mood, and all that hogwash is a pompous fucktard. Theoretically, anyone with an average IQ can be a competent writer. Not great, perhaps, but good enough. Greatness, now that comes with genius. But I’m not here to talk about great writing. Either you have it or you don’t. That’s my only concession to the alleged mystery of the art. I’m here to talk about competent writing. That kind that puts bread on your table.

How does one become a competent writer then? Read a lot and write a lot. That’s all there is to it. If you read a lot and write as much then you’ve got it made and there’s no way short of a lobotomy that you can fail to write competently. What you read will lead you to read more, which will lead you to write your own shit, which will lead you to master the skill of manipulating language and imaginary events until they please your audience. In the case of television and movie writing, watching TV and movies a lot is an added requirement because that is a visual medium. An added requirement, notice, not the entirety of it. I’m appalled at how some of the film and TV writers I’ve known have confessed that they don’t like reading that much; that they’d rather watch movies or TV. That’s like saying you want to be a cook but you don’t want to actually cut up meat and vegetables. While movies and TV shows educate the writer on how to tell a story visually, actual reading fills your brain with the stuff that you will use to create situations, characters, emotions, etc. What I’m getting at is that the stuff you read about enriches your imagination. And until the technology for Matrix-style direct cerebral input is perfected, there are no shortcuts to reading.

Counter-argument: living the shit is better than reading about it.

Okay, first-hand experience is great. The only problem is that if you write about nothing else except your actual experiences, you’ll either be a one hit wonder or you’ll continue rehashing your stuff ad nauseum. Seriously now, how many angles can a person live in a lifetime? And by angle I don’t mean a three-month stint in a fastfood resaurant. An angle is a state of being that you live and breathe and eat. Excuse me, but when I write about prostitutes I never become one for a couple of years so’s I can live the shit. Too often, writers use their work to assuage their guilt. I’ve nothing against your trip, man, but be honest to yourself. You’re snorting that cocaine because it’s awesome and not because you’re a fucking artist.

What strikes me about human mortality is the utter injustice of it.

I was studying the antics of my wife’s niece and nephew earlier and I was instantly reminded of my own antics at that age. Meaning, back then I was so alive and I didn’t realize it. Nope, I was as observant as a lump of coal. And that just made me want to grab a .35 caliber revolver and pistolwhip the kids into some semblance of sanity. Sanity, as in: “hey brats stop acting like a pair of hyenas and start worrying about your fucking mortality!”

Okay, that was a little harsh. I love my brother-in-law’s kids. But at 31 a man notices the stranger in the mirror and realizes it’ll all be over soon. Since the average human lifespan is 75 years, I’ve almost used up half of mine. And so far, it’s been absolutely pointless. Nothing I’ve ever done and nothing I’ll ever do will mean anything in the end. I will die and even if my work lives on for a thousand years I will still be dead. And that, I submit, will absolutely suck when it finally happens.

I deserve to be immortal. No, I don’t care that the world would be a crowded place if humans were built with an infinite shelf-life. I’m not talking about you or anybody else. I’m talking about myself. I deserve to be immortal because I so do not want to die. I’m halfway through with my life but I’m not halfway through enjoying it. In fact, I’ve barely started doing so! I say a man’s prime isn’t in his 30s, or 40s, or 50s. It’s between the ages 0 to 21, when the body is still growing and replenishing itself. At 21 onwards, the human body starts dying.

21 years is a very very short time.

Which brings me back to my brother-in-law’s kids. They have less than 21 years to enjoy their prime and what are they doing with it? Of course, I can’t blame them. They’re kids. They think the adults have it all figured out so there’s nothing to worry about. Their field of reference is too small for them to realize that they have very little time to enjoy life. They think they have all the time in the world. Truly, youth is wasted on the young.

With that, I propose a class action suit against Mother Nature for shortchanging us on life. She thrusts it upon us when we least deserve it and takes it away when we attain the wisdom to enjoy it. She gives us youth and vigor when we don’t need it and tortures us with age and infirmity when we most thirst for the opposite. This is clearly a violation of our human rights.

Fuck you, Mother Nature.

Have you heard the one about Tammy? If not then you’re an internet bumpkin. Okay, here it is: Sometime around last February there’s this seventeen-year-old named Tammy from Singapore’s Nanyang Polytechnic (NYP) who became an instant internet celebrity. Overnight the phrase “Tammy NYP” became the top search phrase in Technocrati. The reason: a nasty 10-minute video that shows her bumping uglies with her boyfriend. Urban legend says Tammy and her guy recorded the deed with the girl’s phone camera. The phone was stolen by another girl who hated Tammy so much she posted the video on the net. Damn thing spread quicker than AIDS in a South African gangbang. And there it was, chinadoll Tammy’s pimpled ass creaming around a red cock in full glory. End of story. Yes, I’ve downloaded the video on my phone. No, I’m not going to give you the website where I got it. If you want it badly enough I’m sure you’ll find it.

Kids, eh?

Some months back I passed by an apartment building in Cubao where some kids, around ten years of age, were goofing about and sliding down a staircase. I then overheard one of the girls telling another girl: “doesn’t it feel great when the wood’s rubbing against your pussy?”

Fuck. What the.

The reason I’m telling you this is because Janice and I are trying again for a rugrat and I’ve often told her that I would prefer a girl (since, according to Mike I’m a repressed cross-dresser and I want a daughter so I can dress her up like a doll). But shit, man, how the fuck do I handle raising a daughter in these times of sexual abandon? Should I buy a dog instead?

Anyway, check out my new retarded article in Songs of the Salamander and The Man Blog, entitled, The Misogynist’s Guide to Dating Part I: Rape.