Ask the Author: Austin Washington
Answered Questions (3)
Austin Washington
Shut up.
>> Sorry, your answer is too short. Longer answers are more popular with readers, and even “yes or no” answers are more interesting with more detail.
That's the problem, see? I repeat:
Shut up.
>> Sorry, your answer is too short. Longer answers are more popular with readers, and even “yes or no” answers are more interesting with more detail.
That's the problem, see? I repeat:
Shut up.
Austin Washington
I'll answer my own damned question, thank you very much:
The worst thing about being a writer is writers. My God, how I hate them.
This is why it’s almost impossible to find anything worthwhile to read these days.
There was a time, not that long ago, when books were written by people. You remember them, right? People who had lives, lived lives, and whose writing reflected their lives.
I think of J.D. Salinger, for no particular reason, other than his style and the soul behind it were engaging, uplifting, and yet thoroughly flawed and human.
On the other hand, I projectile vomit – or at least my spirit and soul does – when I try – oh, God, I try, I want them to be good, I really do – to read, say, a story in The New Yorker published in my lifetime.
This is the way they start – they always start this way:
“The fall leaves reminded me that my dissertation was long over-due.”
Or, “My wife’s mother never liked my turkey sandwiches.”
Or, “If I could forget my turtle, trust me, I would, but he haunts me even in my dreams.”
Whereas, a real story would start out, like, say:
“Ilium New York is divided into three parts.”
Get to the point, damnit, and stop telling me about your lifeless life, which has festered and molded like a compost pile on the edge of your shitty yard in the pathetic college town that you’ve never left, although you’re 35, and all you’ve ever done is take writing workshops and write, while having nothing to write about.
Leave me alone, and shut up.
The worst thing about being a writer is writers. My God, how I hate them.
This is why it’s almost impossible to find anything worthwhile to read these days.
There was a time, not that long ago, when books were written by people. You remember them, right? People who had lives, lived lives, and whose writing reflected their lives.
I think of J.D. Salinger, for no particular reason, other than his style and the soul behind it were engaging, uplifting, and yet thoroughly flawed and human.
On the other hand, I projectile vomit – or at least my spirit and soul does – when I try – oh, God, I try, I want them to be good, I really do – to read, say, a story in The New Yorker published in my lifetime.
This is the way they start – they always start this way:
“The fall leaves reminded me that my dissertation was long over-due.”
Or, “My wife’s mother never liked my turkey sandwiches.”
Or, “If I could forget my turtle, trust me, I would, but he haunts me even in my dreams.”
Whereas, a real story would start out, like, say:
“Ilium New York is divided into three parts.”
Get to the point, damnit, and stop telling me about your lifeless life, which has festered and molded like a compost pile on the edge of your shitty yard in the pathetic college town that you’ve never left, although you’re 35, and all you’ve ever done is take writing workshops and write, while having nothing to write about.
Leave me alone, and shut up.
Austin Washington
Gee whizz, I try to stop it. The flow, the overwhelming torrent. Shut up already. I’m trying to get some sleep here, please…
There are already far far too too many words in the world. I wish everyone would just shut the hell up unless he had something to say.
If my brain didn’t feel like it was exploding with thoughts and ideas, and, most recently, crazy fiction that takes me in directions I never expected, wanted, or desired to go, trust me, I’d stick to listening to the birds tweet.
Tweet, tweet. It’s lovely, yes?
I think it’s a sin against our spirits if anyone says or writes anything without being overwhelmed by something noble, refined, visionary, elegant, and brand new.
Unless he’s, like, writing a menu. Then, I’d just like to request some flaming beef brochette with brandied cherries, please.
Gee whizz, I try to stop it. The flow, the overwhelming torrent. Shut up already. I’m trying to get some sleep here, please…
There are already far far too too many words in the world. I wish everyone would just shut the hell up unless he had something to say.
If my brain didn’t feel like it was exploding with thoughts and ideas, and, most recently, crazy fiction that takes me in directions I never expected, wanted, or desired to go, trust me, I’d stick to listening to the birds tweet.
Tweet, tweet. It’s lovely, yes?
I think it’s a sin against our spirits if anyone says or writes anything without being overwhelmed by something noble, refined, visionary, elegant, and brand new.
Unless he’s, like, writing a menu. Then, I’d just like to request some flaming beef brochette with brandied cherries, please.
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