How to Start Working Even if You Don’t Want to Because You’re Drunker than You’ve Ever Been, or Some Other Debilitating Condition Has You Laid Up

I been drunk for almost five months. What else is a guy like me gonna do with his life? I’m practically illiterate compared to some of my contemporaries. None of my stories feature teenage romances. Can you believe that? None of them! If there’s gonna be a teenager in one a my stories you better believe she’ll be fucked (up the ass) in the end. That’s just what Bob Collins is about.

Bob Collins stories ain’t rainbows and love blossoms. Maybe they’re Cleveland Steamers and golden showers. Did you read what passes for my bio? Can you really expect happy endings from a Bob Collins story?

Hell, no!

A Bob Collins story is more like drinking too much at a bar, passing out, and waking up in a bathroom stall with your face smooshed against the floor tiles, all befouled and coated in unwashed layers of piss, crap, cum, and puke–while your buddies stand over you cracking jokes at your pathetic ass.

That’s right. You’re so high and mighty during the day, so capable at your job, or at least you’re trying to delude everybody into thinking so… But at night where are you? Shitfaced drunk with someone else’s turds rubbed up against your tongue.

That’s a Bob Collins story.

But there hasn’t been many Bob Collins stories. That’s the point and it’s a big problem when as an author you want to make a living by selling your work.

In order to do that, you have to do two things: 1) Produce work; and 2) Make sure that work is worth reading. When I say “worth reading” I mean it’s done well enough that someone (hopefully many someones) gets so much pleausre out of the experience they toss some coinage my way.

I haven’t done a good job of that.

You see, I wrote a fictionalized version of my one and only marriage, The Sexually Adventurous Life of Bob Collins vol. 1, and it was an okay book. For a first book. The thing is readable, but it ain’t giving no one any wood. Which means I been doing my best to improve on it. The stories I’ve done since them, yeah, they’re technically better, but they don’t have no “ooomph”–there ain’t no pop. And the title I chose for the first book was a bad title. I mean, hell, there was more than one volume to be written so that part wasn’t a lie and there was a lot of sex in that book, so that wasn’t a lie, either; but the story wasn’t about vast sexual experiences. It was more about how I fell in love with this woman and then learned to hate her. You know, the way relationships go.

The book has been selling, but not enough to keep a guy with my tolerance in alcohol for very long. Another indicator that my game has to improve. Not just in the writing, but also in the authoring and publishing.

What it comes down to, drunk or not, is to do the work. It’s time to cut out distractions. No more dicking around. I don’t need two whores a day. What I need to do is plaster my ass in a chair and write. That’s the only way to do this career. Just do the work.

The thing is–and I generally don’t admire people–I look around the internet and I see writers of all abilities who’ve done the work. That impresses me. Against my will, I’ll admit it inspires me.

Like I said earlier, I had some short stories I got going. Some worked, others didn’t. I couldn’t in good conscience publish inferior product. What, you expect a man with and eleven-and-three-quarter-inch dick to shaft you? I might give some of my sexual partners the rod, but I don’t screw my readers–unless they proposition me. And I couldn’t publish none of them stories because my laptop crashed. Now, those stories are legends.

I been so depressed. That book, The Sexually Adventurous Life of Bob Collins vol 1, I wrote that motherfucker back in 2008. I started it back in 2006. Now, it’s 2012. Since then I’ve barely gotten shit together. Like I said, a few inferior short stories. But nothing good. I mean, TSALoBCv1 was my first book. I’m cutting myself a little slack with it. Someday, I might even withdraw it from the market. I haven’t decided. All I know is I have to produce more. But what do I do instead?

I drink myself silly. For 5 months. I started drinking back in January and I haven’t stopped since. My liver is a little tender, but that ain’t so uncommon with me. I been wandering all over the world, fucking and drinking, searching for an idea to tackle. I don’t want no bullshit teenage love stories either. I wanna write something important–or at least is more important than another goddamned doomed magical high school couple.

For 5 months I’ve been drinking to help something come into my mind. (No wisecracks!) I think something finally did.

Today something happened. I got inspired. With a story idea. Something that has some meat in it, some weight. I’m gonna start working on it if I can hold off the booze long enough to stop touching myself.

And that’s what you really got to do. You gotta do the work. If I need to close myself up in a closet for 3 weeks while I pump out a first draft, well, guess what, Bob, you asshole, that’s what’s going to happen. Because this laziness. It ain’t you, Bob. It’s fear. Get rid of the distractions. Face your fear. And write.

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