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.