No, I do not want to read the first 2½ chapters of that insipid vampire novel you’re writing. It is not good, it is not original.
“But F.F.,” you may say, “this vampire novel is totally different from any vampire novel you‘ve ever-” No no! No. Not good. Not original.
Get that vampire novel away from me. Get that vampire novel away from me, I said. In a few years, you’ll regret all the time you spent on it anyway.
Don’t believe me? Let’s try this:
Why don’t you take your totally awesome, totally original vampire novel, and put it on a shelf for a while.
Then, get on a train.
Doesn’t matter where to.
In fact, it’s better if you don’t know.
Get off in the first big city you come to and get a bad job in a bad part of town.
Live in an even worse part of town.
With someone who’s totally different from you.
Ideally, they won’t even speak your language.
Learn their language.
Fall in love.
Not the kind of romance you see in the movies, either.
Let it be real.
Toss furniture out the window.
Go on depressed coke binges and sell the TV.
Have passionless sex.
Break up six or seven times.
Go and live on the streets.
Breathe your city’s air.
Suck in its soul.
Spend a month living under a bridge writing poems from your heart and throwing them in the water.
Spend another month fasting and meditating till your barriers pop and the starlight sounds like a hurricane.
Rip open your chest and let the Universe in.
Ask big questions.
Resolve to find out who you are.
Join a convent or a monastery.
Fail there, too.
Watch someone die.
Get addicted to something.
Let it take over your life and damn near kill you.
Feel it all.
Pick up the totally awesome, totally original vampire novel you were working on, and read everything you’ve written, from beginning to end.
If you still feel like finishing it, then I’d be glad to have a look.
Or, if you prefer, we could burn it, scatter the ashes to the four winds, and go dancing with the gods.
We’ll run out to the sea, and I’ll show you the hammerhead whales.
I’ll make you a crown of exotic feathers and a necklace of human hands.
Words will spill from our throats, and we’ll play in language like a gargoyle garden.
Or we could kill each other.
You’re so young.
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