The Decalogue of Writing
I have sinned, Henry
How I broke the 10 commandments of writing on Medium
His God is God — Rameses
I need a new Prophet. There are the fat ones with yellow teeth, the gentle men of a different time, the ones whose pithy books I buy, the ones of my generation with roses in their pockets and finally, those who wrote by the sea while writing about it. My prophets mostly, are down and out in a city, somewhere — like me, my strange reader.
I need a new prophet now. I have decided to write about how I have sinned. False or otherwise the choice might be, but it is going to be Henry Charles Bukowski. He was buried near his home.
His epitaph reads — Don’t try it. His commandments on writing summarized in one, one letter wiser.
— DON’T DO IT.
In 1986 Time called Bukowski a laureate of American lowlife. If you, my reader, my stranger — if you have heard of him, even drunk a toast when he read his poetry, skip this ramble and move on to discover other creeds. For there is nothing here for you.
But perhaps reading about how I sinned, you will hold up for yourself a shy mirror of redemption. If you are up to it, that is. As for you, my straggler — you will end up praying to this fantastic prophet of writing as I do when I am not writing for Medium.
All this being mostly tepid, here is the promised revelation of how I violated every one of the 10 commandments of writing from my drunk poet, my prophet.
Let us do it.
1 +
If it doesn’t come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don’t do it. Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don’t do it.
I have sinned, Henry.
I mistake the motions of the typewriter for those of my guts. They are the sounds of my bowels. You see, I use Winston — it is not even a real typewriter. I hyperlink words to lead my reader from one rabbit hole into another. I tell myself, I call it discovery to embellish the trash I vomit.
I do that to give value to my readers.
I tease my words profoundly with cigarette smoke alone, for there is no alcohol to be had easily these days. And even if it were possible to drink a bit, I would rather stay focussed unto the end so I tag my piece well rather than let myself fly.
I wait no longer for it to come bursting out, Henry.
I have lit a slow fuse, on the back of my chair, my dirty bottom even, for my words to emerge like a turd. I hold my neck in a choke, a bottleneck is all you for all of it to come bursting, in spite of nothing.
I force myself to write, raping the bluebird in my soul. I tell myself, I cry.
Mostly — As for me, I pick my nose. Butter spread on my toast, I drink my tea. I think I am free.
2+
If you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don’t do it.
I have sinned, Henry.
I hunch over my keyboard to see more clearly the red underline by a machine. The machine knows. But it knows less than me.
No, I am not searching for words anymore.
I sit for hours staring at a screen, another screen, and yet another — of other people’s writing so that I can be like them, even better. No, I do not search for words anymore. The machine does.
Bukowski is dead. I am up for sale.
3+
If you’re doing it for money or fame don’t do it.
I have sinned, Henry.
I have taken your poem about writing and made it into a listicle, a better epitaph for your grave that would be. No silly, not an icicle. You do not even know what it is, it is not some fancy candy.
I have made out your lines into commandments. I have decorated them with fancy numbers in fancy lettering so that people read them like obituaries in the morning newspaper at lunch after they have finished reading it.
I will replace your epitaph with these ten commandments. I will make you into a prophet.
You will rise from the dead.
4+
If you’re doing it because you want women in your bed don’t do it.
I have sinned, Henry.
My eyes glow when a woman follows my writing. I think they are more gullible to the emotional tripe I churn. I have even considered flirting with one or two, especially those who highlight the same lines I do. Maybe they are twins. We look for soulmates in strange places.
They say they are fans and clap when I write. I know, I know.
You will say, you were close to the clap yourself.
5+
If you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don’t do it.
I have sinned, Henry.
I write and rewrite it again, and again. For when I write it the first time, tiny clocks starts ticking in my head, counting different kinds of things.
— Is it 7 minutes already? — How many words are 7 minutes? — Should I write 400 rather?
So many wishes. This and that. How people read. So, I rewrite. Again and again. It is already 1438 now. That was yesterday. Let us see what happens. At least, my drivel will last longer.
Like your drink when you read.
6+
If it’s hard work just thinking about doing it don’t do it.
I have sinned, Henry.
It is no more hard work. It was hard work, the first time. I lost my virginity to a poem, my master, my piece. It is no more hard work now. I spread my legs. Wham! Bam! Bim Bim Bim.
My masterpieces.
7+
If you’re trying to write like somebody else forget about it.
I have sinned, Henry.
I try writing like you. But I also try writing like the men you so hated who drunk themselves to death writing, dying in their own vomit. See, I just let my readers know how familiar I am with your words and your life. Trivia, that can be found with a cursory search in some online repository.
— I write like my prophets, as the way I live. — But all my prophets are false, except you Henry.
By all the suns of Kilimanjaro, the bull running inside me in places where there is hardly any more china to break, my Winston and my smoke — they all make sure, my words come out like the child of a woman whose shoulders are too much round from all the men she knew.
Who is my prophet, Henry?
8+
If you have to wait for it to roar out of you then wait patiently.
I have sinned, Henry.
Wait for what? A whimper isn’t good enough?
Look around me. I take stimuli from my surroundings like from bad breath coated with mouthwash. My notebook is full of writing ideas like knick-knacks.
I can look at a picture from Unsplash and do a poem.
I can write about my cat and Schrodinger, and Heisenberg all at once.
I can put daughter in the title and make it to the top stories in parenting, where I will soon be a top writer — while I have one daughter who is estranged, and another I cannot have.
9+
If it never does roar out of you do something else.
I have sinned, Henry.
I have to write so that I survive until the zombies knock on my door.
It is a job now. A job that doesn’t pay. But somewhere, somehow if someone takes notice — commissions a book ghostwritten by a rascal, aye that would be me. Nay, even a dollar writing to review a fridge or a scooter, as long as it is pay, it is right time pal.
I whimper.
10+
If you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all you’re not ready.
I have sinned, Henry.
I mention innocent souls so that they don’t miss my writing. I go and visit their first posts and leave a message so that they would return the favor. I clap and pray for one in return. I tweet. I tag.
I can even adorn my writing with a cover of a woman about to sin, again. The apple will make them clap.
No, I do not show it to my wife or my girlfriend or my boyfriend or my parents anymore. They do not matter. I can show it to the world as soon as I am half-finished.
I need the fools in. I am gonna be their prophet.
Henry,
I will be like so many writers. I will be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers. I will be dull and boring and pretentious. I will be consumed with self-love.
The libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over my kind. I will add to that. I will do it.
But every once in a while, I will not write Unless it comes out of my soul like a rocket Unless being still drives me to madness or suicide or murder Unless the sun inside me is burning my gut.
Every once in a while, I will not do it.
Because you said —
When it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you.
There is no other way. And there never was.
Yet, I sin again.
PS. Inspired by Jordan Peterson and my strange, blind friends — Muniza and Dan — who see better than me.
I agree with the sentiment. Not sure if the raunchiness was needed to make the satirical point, mind you. I tackled a related issue in Why Write Anything Anymore?
It’s a question of technological advances making it increasingly easy to attempt to sell out in all our endeavours. The Romantic ideal of the visionary, loner artist who heeds his or her muse at the cost of happiness and success is almost anachronistic now, harkening back as it does to the ancient world when rail-thin, mystical madmen prophesied in the dirt. Is the spiritual action found only in cults, while organized religions are strictly for poseurs and dupes?
Likewise, are true artists necessarily unsuccessful and unpopular, diamonds in the rough? But surely the true miracle today is performed by those preposterous few who somehow make a living as writers, when the internet overflows with trillions of writings that are available for free or for a pittance that are of equal or even superior quality to the stories and articles produced by the professional writers.
