Writing is a lonesome pursuit. Whether you’re in a cabin or in an office, in a cafe or up a fucking tree; you’re writing alone. It’s a solitary endeavour.
But as isolated as you may be, you aren’t alone alone. Figurativley and shit.
Of course there are people lining up to make you feel that way. Take the assholes for example, who can’t help but share insightful fucking gems like ‘there’s no money in writing’, and ‘why don’t you just write something commercial’.
Insight like that can have you diving into a bottomless Pinot Noir, filled will hatred and cry-wanking; where shame-fucking and intravenous drugs seem like reasonable antidotes to your despair. I know. I’ve heard it all.
And it’s not just the assholes.
There are writers too who would rather see you fail than accept the fact they may not succeed; sock puppetry and thinly-veiled attacks masquerading as serious critique are just a few of the obstacles facing published or would-be authors.
But it doesn’t have to be that way. Thank fuck for the internet.
I started this Tumblr at the beginning of the year. This is my 200th post. Among the ubiquitous quotes, the Hemingway-appreciation and pictures of my Catcher In The Rye collection, the posts that have most resonated with readers have been the sweary rants.
A-fucking-men. See, for me, the sweary rant is catharsis. It allows me to explore and articulate my frustrations, to vent whatever seething rage is making me want to punch babies.
But it’s not just catharsis. Sweary rants are a cold beer in the hand of the maligned and misunderstood, a topless cuddle for the solitary scribe; a rub and tickle for the most bespectacled and bedraggled of literary doormats.
The sweary rant is a call to arms. It lets the assholes know we’re not going to lie down and take it any longer than it’s pleasurable to do so.
‘That’s right fuckers,’ the Sweary Rants says, 'you don’t own us.'
If there’s one thing the world needs more of, it’s Pinot Noir. If there are two things, then the second is a toss up between mass murder and sweary rants. That latter is where you come in.
Writers; your profession needs you. We need you articulate, thoroughly pissed off and mostly drunk. Pants are optional.
Yes, writing is a lonesome pursuit. But the sweary rant is drunken group karaoke at 2am; we may not be singing in tune, but we’re singing together and holy fuck are we loud when we do.
Turn around bright eyes… and go write a filth-laden, fuck-peppered sweary rant. There are writers out there who will be glad you did. Thank you in advance.