An excerpt from my (aborted) nanowrimo…

January 22, 2007

Can an author really live off his own excrement. Because anyone worth his wait in cynicism knows that this is all that writing it, a writer’s shit. Bull shit doesn’t get its name from high school english students for nothing. If it takes a BS to read BS, then shit is the currency of anyone interested in the “literary” (literally rarely cared about) arts. The national book stock exchange should list “pure grade A manure” right next to Proust, and put Jane Eyre next to shit shoes on the board. And then the world would be right in how it is. And then I could sleep at night. Because I can’t sleep at night.


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