Why writers don’t EVER make jackass phonecalls (any more)

Writers, even when ever so desperately in romantic love,

don’t ever make jackass phonecalls to anyone.

If they did, they’d be salespeople or alpha

execs – or other dumbly besuited trollops

of capitalistic-like endeavour – whose selling of

ideas before they were fruited would clearly be seen

smarter than a fruiting of the ideas

with a due maturity, adequate for the

circumstances to hand.


And such writers, even when desperate for love with homely SO,

won’t ever make jackass conversations any more –

unless they’re damn drunk (at which point it’s got to

be said not all writers are drunkards by the

stretch of any writerly imagination …).


So if you want to make fun of a writer for not

doing the kind of shit which salespeople do,

then ask yourself what’s the point of your

writer, if you need them to make abject

idiots of themselves – especially when you’ve got

alpha execs or the aforementioned trollops

to dollop in spadefuls

the idiocies of salestalk.


Just remember that, then: a good writer is good

precisely because they find it fine to write on

electronic ream the words that come rhyming into

their heads, and consequently end up spending

far more time doing, like this, the solitary stuff

than laying themselves wide open to

the awful ignominy of communicating privately

the words and thoughts and loves and imaginings

their writerly muscles do inevitably produce.


Especially when rejection already came their

violent way.  Either romantically speaking –

or prosaically at home.


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