70
- Colin Fleming
- Nov 2, 2021
- 4 min read
Monday 11/1/21
I don't even really care anymore, man. You're supposed to pretend you aren't dealing with who and what you're dealing with. Eh. Why? Why? Why do that? What's the point? Then they just get to do whatever and you play along? This entire set-up is fucked. It's royally fucked. Here's a letter to the IC tonight.
***
Do you believe this s---? This is what happens. This is the situation I am in, where I am vulnerable to people like this. You imagine reading that book and saying this about it? You have a few things happening here. You have a peon, a nobody, a wannabe writer, and he's not going to be able to pass up taking shots at the likes of me. That's a big part of it. And then you have someone who also has no clue what he has read, because it's so different than what his tiny mind expects, and he's not ready for it at this point in his life--by which I mean, he hasn't had other people tell him it's great and brilliant, and all of that, which is what would have to happen for a guy like this to say those things. It's the same thing with that idiotic Publishers Weekly review for Brackets. They didn't have a f---ing clue what it was, or how to talk about it on their own, as just one person. So they default to like "hey, here's a C+". Because this is just easier; they're too insecure to do anything else. What are you going to say? It's some masterpiece unlike anything you've ever read and here's why? Ha ha ha. Come on. These people don't have that in them. Takes way, way, way too much courage to say that, for them, even if they do think it. They don't trust themselves. They play it as safe as f---ing possible. And what can you do? Write like a moron? Why? Where will that get you? But if you don't write like a moron, these kinds of people won't get it, or they'll just take this coward's way out, and when they do get it later, it'll just be because they know to pretend, or, as I suggested, they're now in a place to get it. Or they're open to thinking it now. Thinking it openly. And you think this guy can tell a single thing about Sam Cooke? Like if he just heard some man singing like that on the subway platform one night, you think he'd say, "Wow, genius!" Of course not. But the problem is, there are so many morons, and until you get a bunch of morons saying the same positive thing--regardless of the reason--you're left with this. Go look at the last blog. Look at the screenshots from the dating site today. And you know what? That's one of the smarter people I've met. And look what she thinks the word "articulate" means. What the f---. I don't know what to do. I really don't feel often like you can write a masterpiece and have any success with it, even if, ironically, millions and millions of people could, in theory, love it, and that's what it was made for. It's like you just have to do crap that any third grader could do. And it's not like anyone gets that, because these people can't get anything. But you've simply painted in one monochromatic color people expect going in. They want to see puke green, because they expect puke green. They derive nothing from puke green, save the satiating of that expectation that puke green awaits them. Whoopee.
This is what we're f---ing dealing with here. This guy is my age. Just click on the first piece. Look at that s---. Holy s---.
They actually f---ing tagged me with this s--- on Twitter. Do you f---ing believe that? And I get it. This dude is totally out of his depth. In everything he does as a writer, let alone when he tries to handle a book/work of art like this book/work of art. Obviously the moment is way, way too big for him, and you can see his insecurities coming out. People can't say s--- on their own. They can't do big pronouncements on their own. Very few people have that kind of confidence in themselves and in their intellect to go out there all naked and say it. So, they default to this kind of tepid BS. And if a guy like this did hear Sam Cooke in the f---ing subway, who he fake venerates, he wouldn't know. He wouldn't call up some people when he got home and be like, "Hey, friends, come back with me tomorrow night and hear this amazing singer I heard at the subway platform." He doesn't know. But now it's officially "Sam Cooke," and you know everything I mean with the quotes--it's official, it's not actually about anyone thinking anything, or noticing anything, or a single damn thing truly registering in their brains; it's the party line--so plonkers like this can pretend they're in the know. And I just don't have the quotes yet. You know what I mean. But honestly, how can you be so bad at anything? This dude is my age. He went to school for writing. How can you still write like a fifth grader? How is that possible? He does a lot of it, too. It's funny--he writes for Popmatters, which doesn't pay, and where I'm actually banned, at this meaningless place, and I'm also banned by the lit mag at this guy's alma mater. But how can you be that bad at something you do that much of? I should sort of pity him, I guess, but then again, don't lay this s--- at my door. If you're not good enough to handle something like this, to handle writing about a work of art like this, and it's beyond the simple stuff you deal in, and you don't have the balls, don't do it. Stick to your regular s---.
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