You Finished Writing Your Book. So Fuckin’ What?

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For someone who used to be shy around the opposite sex, I sure did pick the wrong project to work on. After my fearing rejection from the opposite sex, I choose to pick a project that may cause far worse rejection, far worse than a member of the opposite sex telling me they just want to be friends. For one thing, the book’s subject matter may piss people off.

Yet, here I am writing another draft on a book that might debut this summer. During this time, I could be watching shitty movies I bought at Walmart. Sometimes, for five bucks, you can buy eight to ten low-budget movies on a DVD set. I prefer the horror movies. Like I mentioned earlier, many of these movies are shitty; bad acting and a terrible script. Yet, I love them. I guess I love the movies because they’re so shitty. Time spent writing my book could be time spent watching those shitty movies. Yet, I prefer spending time on the book.

Writing a book takes months. For some writers, it may take years.

Let’s say after many months, the book is finally finished. I slaved over it as much as humanly possible. I wrote a book, damn it. I have accomplished what few have the patience for.

Yet, here’s the kicker. Who cares? I just finished writing a book. So fuckin’ what? Does this mean I deserve some kind of medal? If I didn’t already have a publisher, does this mean my book automatically deserves publishing anyway? Does this mean I’m entitled to have an agent? You know, I wrote a book, damn it! I am the greatest author since Hemingway. (Incidentally, my editor called me an African-American Hemingway.)

Just why the fuck should someone care about me finishing a book? Forget about me, why the fuck should they care about the book itself? Is it any good? Is it going to show an original twist on the evils of Whitey? At the least, is the book entertaining? Will it help people escape depressing surroundings? Even if the book contained enough violence forcing even complaints from Freddy Krueger, is the book still worth buying? If no to any of these, why the fuck should anyone care about my book?

Also, just because the publisher and I love the book, doesn’t mean the public will. I still run the chance of Negro intellectuals badmouthing both the book and me. My book and I could be the subject of a Dr. Boyce Watkins video. Tavis Smiley might throw scorn my way. Hell, Oprah might even slam down her two cents.

Sometimes, I even imagine folks saying obscene things about my mother. When someone says the author is a sick son of a bitch, guess who’s the bitch in that phrase? Yep, some motherfucker would be talking about my mama.

Yet, despite all those scary possibilities, here I am writing another draft on my book. Like I mentioned earlier, I face far worse than let’s just be friends. Still, I write on.

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/124183648@N04/25121402532″>Details</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/”>(license)</a&gt;

About Patrick Scott Barnes

Most of Central Florida knows Stone Crazy (Patrick Scott Barnes) as a poet. Yet, he also photographs, DJ and blogs. The rest of the time, he's guzzling booze in a Central Florida bar.
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