writers that don’t write: a poem

I remember seeing this ad
for an online course
that taught you how to
write eBooks
and make money selling them.

the biggest selling point was…
you didn’t write the books.

you’d outsource the book writing
to someone else
for a nominal fee,
then list the book
under a pseudonym
and collect the royalties.

this guy had done it
hundreds of times,
and made thousands a month
in royalties.

thing was:
the books weren’t great.
I looked at a few of them.

they were nonfiction books
about various topics,
and clearly
the writers weren’t experts
on those topics.

worst of all—
the books lacked
any personality whatsoever.

it was almost criminal
how boring they were.

(like most of society.)

now,
I’m not against capitalism
as a whole.
I work for a large company.
it pays my bills.

but having non-experts
write books on topics
they have no idea about,
just to make you
look like an “author”
when you’re really
just a crappy “publisher”
is kinda sad.

at least
James Patterson’s
writers can craft
a halfway decent novel.

(and he actually did
write them back in the day.)

the business guy
I’m talking about
admitted he couldn’t even write.

so, here’s my question:
why even bother publishing books at all?

I guess it just irks me
because everyone wants
the prestigious title
and feeling
of being an “author.”

they’re in love with the idea
of having written.
not of writing.

Bukowski talked about this.
as has Stephen King.

many want to be known
as writers.

but they can’t stand
the process of writing.

I just don’t get why
you’d want to be
in the writing business
if you don’t like to write.

I don’t know.
maybe I’m wrong.
but it seems to me,
if you don’t love the process,
the results will speak for themselves.

the books will be flat,
boring, forgettable as cardboard.
lifeless. corpselike.
and no one
will look forward to
more of your work.

I think
(and again— I could be wrong)
if the words don’t
overload your brain
like an overworked hard drive,

and

you can’t stop thinking
about the stories,
or the words themselves
or the things you haven’t
put to paper CONSTANTLY
no matter hard you try
to forget them,

and

if the keyboard
or the pens
don’t beckon you
like sirens in the mist,
their lascivious songs
filling your eardrums,
their allure so strong
you can’t escape them

and

you don’t have to
force yourself to finish projects
instead of starting new ones
because you just can’t wait
to get the ideas out of your head
and onto the page,
and it feels like Christmas Day
when you do,
and your Birthday
when you finish a project,

and

you’re not okay with
staring at a blank page
for minutes at a time
wondering what to put on it,
wondering why the words
are suddenly dammed in your mind,
or
looking back on what you’ve written
and hating it all
or
thinking it is
the best set of words
ever put to a page
and you are the best writer
to have ever lived…

then maybe—
just maybe—
you shouldn’t be
in the writing business.

but what do I know?

###

This is a poem from my first book, bearing the burden of existence, available on Amazon.