- Norman Vincent Peale (1893-1993), American evangelist, author
As promised.
More crap.
Only a couple of lowlife friends and I have access to my computer. We all be jovial riffraff. Birds of a feather that munch pizza together. The youngest ne'er-do-well is twenty-eight years old. No children enter my abode because (a) my friends' offspring are now in college and (b) those former youngsters have better things to do than hang out with an old poop like me. No woman has ever used my computer. Hell, as of late, I can't even drag a woman through my front door, much less into my bedroom. My place is a guy's hangout where my buddies can avoid their nagging girl friends or ex-wives. Being nerds, we have minimal interests in sports. Legos has replaced poker. When we're not on the Internet, eating carry-out or watching videos, we play computer games that consist of shooting monsters, creating magical kingdoms or blowing up power stations.
Kent's house is the real center of this aging Peter Pan activity. His main unit can download stuff off the Internet in a tenth the time mine does. And, when it is networking with his other machines, we can blow up entire battlefields. (No kids at Kent's, either. His current girl friend, though, was once caught downloading pictures of naked men and filing them in a folder labeled 'Sausages.' Who says there is nothing for the ladies on the Net?)
All this means is, whatever you send me, will never be seen by immature eyes.
Criticisms, such as I am a jerk or a moron. My writing stinks and I am wasting good Internet space with my drivel. Such remarks will be deleted unanswered. Beside, I get enough of that crap from my family... which is why I now live alone.
Praise for the same stuff mentioned above. I may reply with a simple 'Thanks' but don't hold your breath. Writing communiqués takes time away from writing stories. I just don't fool with it. Also, I'm naturally rude. I consider it a part of my charm, an opinion not always shared by others.
Constructive criticism, I get occasionally. Yes, I am human... vaguely... and I'll miss something or screw up. If you spot a flaw, I want to know about it so I can correct it. But nit-picking? No thank you.
Internet pen pals? No, thank you. I make few new friends because I rarely lose my old ones. (For example: I've known Stephen since we were in Boy Scouts, which was long before most of you were born.) True, many are now scattered across the globe but we keep in touch. When they write, I respond because I know them. I know their voices and their faces, their flaws and their merits. Each, in their own way, is uniquely great.
Fellow writers, I give you my best and all my pity. I haven't been able to crack the professional market yet and, because of my writing style and subject matter, maybe I never will. I like to think it's because I'm ahead of the pack rather than I'm an obstinate old fart... but who knows? Both possibilities could be true. So I will continue to storm ahead, conceivably stepping on a few toes while chasing after my visions. No, I have no clues as to how to become a professional author... otherwise I would have used them myself. (For more info on my various literary headaches, read I Don't Do Agents.) As for me publishing your tales on my WebSite, the answer is no... for a variety of reasons. Instead, I encourage you to publish your stories on your own WebPages, far from the editing and meddling of others. Including me.
Selling me something? Don't even write. Please take me off your mailing list NOW. I'm not interested. I have no money... which may explain why I currently have no girl friend. That, and my personality. And my physique. And the car I drive. And where I live. And my dismal future prospects. Jeez, I'm depressing myself...To my family: Don't send me E-mail. Send me money. Of course, if you are a member of my family, you have no money. Catch-22 lives on.
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Attachments We Seek