Let me fix the headline: Shitheads Who Have No Business Writing Whine Their Free Ride Is Ending
On Twitter, I railed against that article.
I’m publishing those tweets here. Because fuck you.
And I’m still so mad that I’m going to add to this pile-on with some interstitial comments.
Get that through your goddammed head, you idiot. We are competing for someone’s time and attention. Not their money. Their time and attention. That means anything other than a book is competition.
I feel zero sympathy for you if you encouraged people who have no fucking business trying to put one word next to another to go at NaNoWriMo. If you encouraged that, suffer. The crap that’s dumped into eBook services in December that buries discovery for your work is of your doing.
That. Can you dig it? You, you whining little shit, how many TV shows and movies and songs do you not buy, not see, not listen to? Then why the fuck should your book be any different when it comes to indifference? (Update: I see “stories” typoed as “stores.” If picking on a typo is the best you’ve got, you’re lamer than I even thought.)
Because the studios are run by people who can at least pretend to be adults. But not you.
That’s the National Writers Union. Why don’t you stop fucking reading this and join now?
Complaining about being buried and then being part of the burying of others? I can’t even.
Welcome to planet Earth. Please conclude your visit soon. You’re too fucking stupid even for here.
That. Now go read this too.
Here, let me help you. Balzac at Wikipedia. Balzac at Google Books. Read them. Then die of embarrassment for thinking you can write. And by the way, have you even heard of Google Books? That’s where like jillions of books by better writers live. And they’re all free. So why should people pay for your self-published shit that’s likely the end result of being delusional instead of reading writing that was judged good by others and was paid to be published?
Here, let me help you some more: La Comédie humaine. I know how hard it is to Google in your bubble.
Gee, could that depressing title have been a factor? And who says it should have sold? And what, even your mother didn’t buy a copy, to make you feel good? Then why the hell should anyone else?
I repeat, with italics this time: Go fuck off. And go read the obituary of Roberta Leigh so you can die of shame. And I look forward to the future lawsuit where your “co-authors” sue your ass for the screwing you’re bound to give them. Your shit better not stink when it comes to your co-author contracts.
And now I have.
To the punks in that article: DON’T LEAVE A COMMENT. You opened your yaps in The New York Times. This is my reaction to that. You don’t get a right of rebuttal here. Fuck off.