Another Author Bio
Writing a novel at age eighteen did little to affirm the correctness of the authorship pursuit. Rejected by many publishers, the manuscript sat in a box collecting dust but eventually transcribed to the computer in a vague hope of one day becoming published. With no shelf adorned with published books or literary awards, I possess only a claim to be a writer and an enormous term paper library written across more than a decade. These papers are disturbing, spurring a strong desire to divorce them as they represent the worst of writing: fast, commercial, and lacking substantive value. Some people enjoy the papers, but if they knew my uncaring method of writing academic essays, they might also feel disturbed when realizing the ease of bullshitting one’s way through life. But these papers are married to me like a porn star to her past with no escaping prior academic masturbation for money.
A decade of writing term papers and web content passed Netflixing, listening to Live365, then Pandora, and on to Spotify. Listening to music provided a relaxing backdrop to the dull, meaningless writing, and playlists became a fascination as well as Kesha. During the many long days of paper writing, imaginative journeys with Kesha transpired in exotic lands and mythical places. Perhaps her ability to yodel first captured me; I am unsure, but essay writing passed in a joyful blur of delivery-food and vodka while listening to “Blow” and other songs. Don’t tell her, but I believe we will one day marry and fulfill some cosmic purpose.
Along with academic writing, I built websites and wrote web content of the most mundane nature, less the slightly more intriguing sex toy content. There is no Pulitzer for sex toy product descriptions which causes much aggravation, having ordained myself The William Faulkner of Sex Toys. How many ways can you describe a dildo, its function, and meaningfulness?
Abandoning the traditional publishing path long ago resulted from an intense dislike of publishers, who are literature’s pimps, whoring authors on a Saturday night dollar sale. The irony of pimping myself to anyone needing hack-writing does not escape notice, but self-pimping is far more honorable than trafficking unsuspecting writers.
I also don’t care much for writers, especially those who prostitute themselves with genre fiction: the ho-slap to the face of literature. This dislike for genre writers may sound paradoxical, having sold thousands of derivative papers of no academic or social value, but I feel justified in this hatred, accepting it as an irreparable character flaw.
Today, authorship is a novel and article writing journey, streaming with Kesha nowhere or perhaps to some cosmic purpose — I hope the latter, but who the fuck knows?