What Other Jobs Can Writers Do?

One of the challenges of being a writer is that there are no more jobs for writers, just as there are no more jobs for switchboard operators, sages, or people who were once pretty good at ping pong. Many of the jobs writers used to have—journalist, reporter, copywriter, book reviewer, speechwriter, pamphleteer—are now outsourced to robots and millennials, which means the world is crawling with unemployed and unemployable ex-writers who, released from the obligation to entertain and inform people for the sake of a paycheck, are free to write whatever they want.

This is a dangerous situation.

Without the threat of a disapproving corporate overlord to reign in their truth-telling impulses, writers are free to say what they think—and writers who have nothing left to lose are capitalism’s worst nightmare.

When writers start thinking, whole societies can crumble and turn to dust overnight. Trust me, Marx didn’t invent communism because he was happy about his career trajectory. Indeed, wars and bombs and terrorists aren’t the biggest threat to the capitalist house of cards that is modern-day America—it’s a writer who hasn’t quite yet articulated the “idea” that everyone is already sort-of thinking, but is getting pretty close, because his or her livelihood no longer depends on keeping their mouth shut.

The last thing this country needs is more writers with too much time on their hands. Left to their own devices, writers are much more likely to write something meaningful, important, or—more dangerous still—inspired. And then where will we be?

Think of it: A world without wizards and werewolves and vampires; no more stories about fad diets, beauty aids, or celebrities; a sudden absence of information on how to have more powerful orgasms. No more fashion advice, food blogs, or stress-busting workout strategies. No way to find out how to keep your abs hard or turn your closet into a gift-wrapping room. No handy baking tips or advice on how to use all that chard you planted in May.

Instead, imagine the horror of a world filled with even more thoughtful essays on the many ways in which the world is going to shit. What if the only things available to read on the Internet were ten-thousand-word New Yorker stories and long, winding “think” pieces that never get to the point? Do you really want to live in a country awash in exhaustive, in-depth analyses of everything?

I didn’t think so.

As a matter of national security, then, it’s important that we devise new ways for writers to once again be productive, non-disruptive members of society. Otherwise, civilization as we know it may soon come to a deceptively well-written end.

Here are a few suggestions:

Golf Guide: One thing professional golfers have that amateur golfers lack is people analyzing and discussing every shot they make. To solve this problem, well-to-do golfers could hire writers to follow them on the course and record every nuance of their round for posterity. After the round, the golfer would receive a detailed summary and expert analysis of each hole, allowing the golfer to relive the glory of each shot over and over again.

Horoscopist: Most horoscopes are too short, insipid, and general to be of any real use. Why not hire a writer to craft a highly personalized, intensively researched, and only slightly less bogus daily horoscope for your spiritually entertaining pleasure? For an extra ten bucks an hour, most writers are more than willing to shelve their cynicism and write whatever you want, however you want it. Sample prediction: It’s going to be a fabulous day, and you’re the sun at its center!

Likeability Coach: Everyone wishes they were wittier and more charming in social situations. A professional writer can help turn your awkwardness into awesomeness, the same way I just did in the first half of this sentence. Never be at a loss for words again. Better yet, have the right words on the tip of your tongue when you really need them.

Anger Management Consultant: Ever found yourself in a protracted fight with your partner or spouse, and had trouble keeping track of all the arguments swirling in your head about why they’re so wrong and you’re oh-so-right? An Anger Management Consultant can help organize and craft your arguments until each one is a soul-piercing masterpiece of irrefutable truth. With a professional writer on your side, you never have to lose an argument again.

Shopping Helper: These days, it’s hard to keep up with which foods from what company are really organic, free-range, GMO-less, super-natural mega-foods blessed by the Creator himself. But if you employ an out-of-work reporter to walk down the aisle twenty feet in front of you, they can use their phone to do the research you don’t have time for, and help ensure that you’re making the most responsible, planet-friendly buying decisions possible.

Holiday HandyWriter: Most family get-togethers follow familiar and quite predictable patterns of dysfunction. But why go into the holidays unarmed? A much better solution to the annual family drama is to hire a professional writer sometime in October. In a matter of weeks, they can provide you with an entire arsenal of witty, conflict-deflecting retorts tailored to address any possible grievance that might come up. Thus prepared, you can enjoy your holiday gatherings secure in the knowledge that there is no way your family is going to get to you this year—or any year, ever again.

These are just a few of the possible jobs writers could do. And please, feel free to contribute your own ideas.

The most important thing to remember is that, if writers were hired to do these kinds of jobs, they wouldn’t be sitting around trying to figure out how to change “the system” or spark some kind of cockamamie “revolution.” And that’s good news for everyone.

The Writer's Toolkit: How to Deal with Rejection

All writers must learn to deal with rejection. That’s because more than half of a writer’s mail is condescending notes from ignorant editors informing them that their work does not fit the “needs” of the publisher, and that this outright rejection, while regrettable, is in no way a judgment on the quality of your work or the disturbing nature of your subject matter.

The hell it isn’t.

Every writer who gets a rejection notice—that is, all writers, everywhere—thinks the same thing: Fucking idiots. They obviously have no idea who they’re dealing with here, because they can’t recognize pure genius when it’s staring them in the face! Did they even read it? Obviously not, because the proof is right here in my hands! If they’d read it, they wouldn’t have sent me one of their sorry-sounding form rejection letters—because, as anyone who reads what I wrote can plainly see, its brilliance is self-evident. I shouldn’t have to explain how extraordinarily awesome my work is—they should just know! Philistines! They have no idea how close I am to snapping, or they wouldn’t provoke me like this!

 It’s a universal reaction. And, after the initial shock, many writers go through a kind of cleansing ritual to get themselves back on track. Maybe they get drunk. Or they hit the gym. Or go fishing. Or go for a long drive without telling anyone. It doesn’t really matter what you do. The important thing to remember is that in order to survive as a writer, one has to find healthy, effective ways to deal with constant rejection by incompetent morons.

Here’s my ritual:

First, I dig a small hole in the yard and stand last year’s Christmas tree in it. Then I dress it up as the editor who rejected me. Most editors are short, fat people with small, pointy heads, so an old Christmas tree works great for this. I put a Twins cap on top of the tree to identify said editor as a loser. I cut out a pair of paper googly eyes and stick them on a couple of branches. I use pruning shears to cut out a hole where the editor’s heart should be. Then I grab a flamethrower, laugh, and torch my editor-in-effigy with a few well-aimed blasts of fire.

My flamethrower of choice is the mighty Xmatter X15, because it has four times the throw pressure of a normal flamethrower (4,000 psi, for you flame-tossing geeks), and it comes with three different wand tips, as well as an extra CO2 tank, so you can always be ready when the “need” strikes. Remember: Whenever your work doesn’t meet their needs, you have to meet your own. And trust me, nothing makes you feel better quite like torching a fat, heartless editor with two-thousand degrees of flaming mayhem.

Other writers have their methods of dealing with rejection, I’m sure. But this is how I deal with mine—and why, at Christmas, I buy forty or so trees every year at the local YMCA lot. Sometimes I run out by July and have to improvise, which is why I’m seriously considering buying a Christmas tree farm next year. In the offseason, I’m thinking of starting a retreat for rejected writers, because every writer in the world would be a potential customer.

More info on the Catharsis Christmas Tree Farm will be available soon. 

Is the Writer's Life for You?

I run into people every day—at the track, in the casino, around the pool—who think it would be great to live the writer’s life. They look at me and think: really, how hard can it be?

It would be fun, they think, to sit around and smoke cigarettes all day and say cynically witty things that are re-Tweeted on Facebook and attributed to the wrong person. They want to know what it’s like to walk into a Barnes & Noble and see your book piled by the dozens in the discount section for 70 percent off. They envy the idea of being a respected “intellectual” whose ideas are ignored by millions. Lying around the pool, eyes closed, agonizing over that next chapter—it all sounds so romantic to them. And wiggling their fingers over a keyboard for a few hours a day seems to them like a painless way to both make millions and maintain their finger dexterity well into old age.

And so, they think, the writer’s life is for them.

Unfortunately, what these people don’t know about the writer’s life could easily fill a book they are not writing. I know this because I am a writer, and I’m willing to trade lives with just about anybody.

Donald Trump, for instance. I’d trade lives with The Donald in a heartbeat. Bill Gates is living a life I’d like to have, too, although I hear Melinda can be a handful sometimes. I’d trade lives with Anthony Bourdain, too, because eating and drinking and saying sarcastic things about other people on national television sounds like a hoot. I wouldn’t mind being a supermodel, either, or Taylor Swift. There’s a woman in my building who is always smiling, and sometimes I think it would be worth trading lives with her just to see why she’s so happy all the time. My fear, of course, is that it’s the result of over-medication, but those are the chances you take when you trade lives with people.

Irony abounds, of course. People look at me and think, hey, wouldn’t it be great to be that guy? And here I am, that guy, thinking hey, wouldn’t it be great to be somebody—anybody—else?

Why is that?

Well, most people think the writing profession is all about getting up at noon, chugging a fifth of Jack Daniels, sitting down, and waiting for the inspiration to flow. But nothing could be further from the truth. Many writers sleep all day and chug their fifth of JD at night. Some get up very early and have their JD over cereal. Others use their JD to wash down a handful of amphetamines, and still others do not drink JD at all—they rely on various hallucinogens and narcotics to get their creative juices flowing. Every writer is different; you have to find out what works for you, and that can take years.

People who do not struggle with the terror of the blank page tend to think all they’d have to do to be a writer is wake up early, make a pot of strong coffee and start typing. Unfortunately, that’s the sort of misconception that leads to such literary tragedies as Fifty Shades of Grey and the whole Twilight series. Lame S&M fantasies and high schools full of teenage vampires are the sort of thing that happens when people try to write using nothing but coffee and a laptop. Such calamities also lead other people to believe that they too could lead a writer’s life, if only they could muster the courage to visit their nearest Starbuck’s and hog a table all day.

Nobody needs a license to write, but they should. As is true with so many other occupations, writing should be left to the professionals. Allowing amateurs to lead a writer’s life is a mistake. Amateurs who think the writer’s life is for them should trade lives with a writer first to see if it really is. But be forewarned, the writer they trade with may not want to give their life back, in which case they’d be stuck with no choice but to write for a living.

Goodbye Starbuck’s, hello Liquor Barn. 

Blood on the Stacks: The Great Bleeder Cover Controversy

Much has been said—in print, on talk shows, at the White House—about the use of blood on the cover of my short-story collection, The Bleeder. It has even been suggested that I chose blood—over, say, strawberry jam—to titillate the curiosity of people whose lust for violence is so intense that it guides their book-buying decisions.

I’d like to address a few of these accusations now:

First, the idea that I used blood imagery as a way of enticing readers fond of murder and mayhem is ridiculous. Yes, it is true that the American people love entertainment that features spurting blood and gratuitous torture, but if I wanted to create a cover image that truly reflects our great nation’s appetite for violence, I would have bathed the thing in red and thrown in a few chunks of flesh and brain matter, to let people know that the killing was done with a shotgun, at close range. As it is, all I did was use a few drops of blood—a level of restraint that several critics in the blood-lust community have deemed “insufficient.”

Second, some readers have expressed concern that the blood on the cover is mine. It is not. As I have said many times, I am dedicated to my work, but not that dedicated. The blood on the cover is actually that of my art director, who volunteered her vein juice because she claimed it was an all-American shade of red (as opposed to my blood, which has a strange, greenish tint to it). My gratitude goes out to her, because we used a lot more than a few drops of her blood. I am a perfectionist, so I insisted that she photograph several hundred blood-drop dispersion patterns to make sure we got the best possible one. Not to worry, though: The paramedics said she could have lost another pint or two of blood and still survived without much brain damage.

Third, as I have explained many times, the blood on the cover is a metaphor. Inevitably, however, some wiseass with a master’s degree stands up at my readings and asks, “A metaphor for what?”

Let’s clear that up once and for all. It is, of course, a metaphor for—what else?—blood! I mean, how literal do I have to get? It’s not like I put the New York Times crossword puzzle on the cover to mystify people. No, I put blood on the cover because the story after which the collection is based has some blood in it, and I thought—in the British accent that my thoughts sometimes adopt—what a bloody marvelous idea! Simply put, using drops of blood as a metaphor for drops of blood is the sort of layered imagery that makes The Bleeder such a highly regarded work of literary genius.

Fourth, it should be obvious to everyone that if blood were not on the cover, I would have to call the collection something else. It wouldn’t make much sense to call a book The Bleeder if there were a bunch of butterflies flitting around on cover, now would it? And if there were a horse or a monkey or a sailboat on the cover, calling the book The Bleeder would have just confused people. They might have thought something bad happened on that sailboat, or that the monkey was psychotic and murdered a team of scientists. A few drops of blood gets the message across in the most straight-forward way possible—someone in the book loses a few drops of blood. No big deal. Nothing a wad of Kleenex can’t handle. Nothing to get worked up about. What kind of sick, twisted mind immediately assumes that blood equals murder? Statistically speaking, most blood loss has nothing to do with murder. Car accidents, power-tool mishaps, surgical procedures, cut feet, odd slips of a kitchen knife—these account for most of the blood loss in this country.

The fact is, American literature has been mired in the muck of sensationalism for far too long. It my sincere hope that the level of discourse over the cover image of my next book, The Shitter, is a bit more sophisticated.

Influencing Public Opinion: It’s Part of the Job

Occasionally, reporters in desperate need of a quote will call me to comment upon world affairs. As a writer, my role as a “public intellectual” requires me to answer their questions, so that the public hears a range of diverse and confusing perspectives upon which to base their own snap judgments and fatuous, ill-informed opinions. I am, of course, always willing to oblige.

Since my comments appear in publications all over the world, it is difficult for readers to keep up with the breadth of my discourse on various topics. So, as a public service, I have collected my most recent quotes here, so that my readers may better understand where I stand on important issues of the day.

Q: Do you think the Minnesota dentist who shot Cecil the lion should be punished?

Me: I think he should get back to work. I have a monster cavity that’s killing me. He said he’d only be gone a week, and now it’s been more like three. (Star Tribune, Aug. 2, 2015)

Q: Do you believe in climate change?

Me: No, I believe nature is out to get me. Why, just the other day I was playing golf and a thunderstorm appeared out of nowhere. I could have been killed. It felt personal. (Science Journal, July, 2015.)

Q: Do you think Donald Trump is qualified to be president?

Me: Of course. He’s rich and stupid and says the sorts of things presidents say, like “You’re fired!” and “Mexicans are criminals,” and “Yeah, I’d tap my daughter.” And besides, who better to manage the American financial system than a man who runs a casino? (Washington Post, July 4, 2015)

Q: What advice can you offer today’s college graduates?

Me: My advice to young graduates is to forget everything you’ve learned over the past seven years (i.e., party as necessary), and follow your passions wherever they may lead. You can always get a job after rehab, and day-care facilities for single parents are excellent these days. (Journal of Higher Education, June, 2015)

Q: What you think of the Iran nuclear deal?

Me: What deal? We made a deal with the Iranians? That’s impossible. Where did you hear this? Don’t you check your sources before calling people like me? Oh, I get it. Ha, ha. This is a trick question. Nice try, but I’m not an idiot. Next question. (New York Times, July 26, 2015)

 Q: When it comes to free speech, do you think corporations should be thought of as people?

Me: When it comes to free speech, I don’t even think people should be thought of as people. Have you read some of the stuff so-called “people” have said in the “comments” section of my blog? At the very least, companies usually send you a letter before they threaten to sue you. Not those savages. (Bloomberg News, June 28, 2015)

Q:Regarding the future of humanity, are you a “glass half full” or “glass half empty” kind of guy?

Me: In general, I’m a “the glass is twice as big as it needs to be” kind of guy. But if we’ve gotten to the point where people like you are asking people like me questions like that, we’re definitely doomed. (Science Journal, May, 2105)

Q: What do you think of Pope Francis?

Me: I like him. He doesn’t make me feel dirty, like some other clergymen I’ve known. He tries a little too hard with the whole “compassion for the poor” thing, but you have to hand it to the guy—the cone hat looks good on him. (Catholic Digest, June, 2015)

Q: Why do you want your book, The Bleeder, banned from public schools and libraries?

Me: Because it’s a filthy, disgusting book full of sex and drugs and dangerous, radical ideas. Teenagers, especially, should be prohibited from getting their hands on it, because it contains secret information only adults should know. It’s a dangerous, dangerous book that, in the wrongs hands, could lead to . . . certain unmentionable types of behavior. A complete and widely publicized ban is the only way to keep our children safe. (Library Journal, May, 2015)

—That’s all for now. I’ll post more items as they come in.

Tutorial: How to Turn People You Hate Into Fictional Characters

Readers often want to know if the characters in my stories are based on real people, and the answer to that question is—duh!

One of the most rewarding things about being a fiction writer is that you can turn people you hate into characters, then torment them in all kinds of painful and humiliating ways. To get away with this, all you have to do is insert a little disclaimer stating that the book is a work of “fiction,” and that any similarities with people living or dead are “purely coincidental.” That’s it, and then you’re legally free to lay waste to anyone and everyone who has ever crossed you.

Besides being therapeutic and a heckuva lot of fun, basing characters on real people you hate adds a degree of authenticity that might otherwise be missing from your work. The key to success in this area of fiction writing is in disguising the “true” identity of the character so thinly that if the real person upon which the character is based (or anyone who knows them) reads the book, they will immediately recognize you are writing about them.

Suppose you have a psychotic ex-girlfriend name Stacy who bangs on your door at two in the morning whenever she goes off her meds. In fiction, a batshit she-witch like Stacy offers a perfect opportunity to introduce a character named “Stacia” who does the same thing, but who peeks through the window and sees the fictional you with another woman, then flings herself into traffic, whereupon it is discovered that, as you always suspected, Stacia was never human at all—she was an evil android sent by aliens to destroy your life.

If you’ve done your job right, the real-life Stacy should be furious when she reads this—so mad that she calls her lawyer to find out if she can sue you for defamation of her so-called “character.” But the law is on your side. Her lawyer will advise her that no, she can’t sue, because it’s a work of “fiction.” Ha! The character in the story that looks and acts like her isn’t really her, he’ll say, so don’t take it so personally.

Oh, but she will take it personally—very personally—and that is the joy of it.

Of course, writers rarely get the satisfaction of being in the room when the subject of their hatred realizes that their ex-boyfriend has totally won, hands down, and there’s nothing they can do. In order to see the anger swell in their eyes and hear the howls of protest as they hurl your book across the room, you have to be outside, nearby, with a good set of binoculars.

If you don’t have a decent set of binos, of course, you must imagine the anguish you’ve caused. But that’s okay too, because you’re a fiction writer, and using your imagination is what you’re good at. Stacy can’t even keep her medications straight, which is why you broke up with her in the first place. She did give you the idea for “Stacia,” though, so the relationship wasn’t a total loss.

Anyway, she’s not your problem anymore—she’s just a character in one of your stories. To hell with her. You got the last laugh, and that’s all that matters. She can’t touch you, because you write “fiction,” so nothing you write is actually “true,”—it just feels like it, to her—and that’s what really matters.

Facing Your Fears is the Worst Idea Ever

Common psychological wisdom suggests that in order to grow as human beings and overcome life’s obstacles, we should all face our fears—and presto, our fears will disappear.

Speaking from bitter experience, I can tell you this is a horrible idea, and it does not work. I found this out the hard way one day when, pushed to the brink of madness, I decided to vanquish my intense fear of marshmallows.

Now, I realize that most people are not afraid of marshmallows, but I am. Other people may see marshmallows as fun candy sponge blobs that add nostalgia and merriment to a night around the campfire, but I do not. Whenever anyone opens a bag of Jet Puffs and says those awful words, “Who wants s’mores?,” my gut starts to quiver, my chest tenses up, the saliva in my mouth disappears, and suddenly everything tastes dry and chalky. Ever since I was in Boy Scouts, my standard response to the s’more question has been, “No thanks, I’ll stick to gin.” But when I reached the age of forty, I figured it was time to do something about the terror that had crippled my childhood.

Small marshmallows don’t bother me much. It’s those big, fat, campfire marshmallows that terrify me. My fear is that if I put one in my mouth, I will accidentally choke on it. Somehow, it will get lodged in my windpipe, adhere itself to the walls of my esophagus, and kill me in a matter of minutes. Then my corpse will lie there for days, bloated and rotting. By the time anyone found me, the marshmallow itself would have melted and disappeared, puzzling the authorities and leading them to determine that my cause of death was “unexplained.” As my soul departed the physical realm, I’d be yelling, “No, no, a marshmallow did me in! Don’t you see?! You must warn the people!” Then I’d disappear into the light—the marshmallow-white light of eternity.

That’s my fear.

One day, I decided it was time to conquer my fear by facing it. So I bought a bag of Jet Puff Jumbos, put one in my mouth, and inhaled.

Lo and behold, precisely what I always feared would happen did—and, as it turns out, my fears were entirely justified. It was terrifying. The marshmallow got sucked half-way down my throat and lodged itself there, creating a tight seal that prevented me from breathing. My face turned red, then purple, but I could not call for help. I could not scream. I beat on my chest and tried to dislodge the marshmallow of doom by exhaling, but nothing worked. Soon, my vision telescoped into a dark circle—the tunnel of death collapsing on itself—there was a bright pinprick of light, then nothing.

I thought I had died, but my wife called the paramedics in time to prevent too much brain damage. On the ambulance ride to the hospital, I heard them say, “He’s going to live, but keep a close eye on him, just in case.” Ever since, my wife has been giving me strange looks and asking me if I’m okay? It’s creepy. Of course I’m not okay—a marshmallow almost murdered me!

The upshot to all of this is that, far from conquering my fear of marshmallows, I am now more afraid of them than ever. I can’t even go down the “snacks” aisle at Target now, for fear that a Jet Puff sighting will trigger a relapse and force me to relive the trauma of that day all over again.

So no, I don’t think facing your fears is a very good idea. In fact, I think it is dangerous nonsense. I’m also afraid of lima beans and full-time employment, but you won’t catch me trying to conquer those fears anytime soon. I’d rather stay afraid than die a stupid, unnecessary death, and I advise you to do the same. Trust me: Whatever you’re afraid of, stay afraid, very afraid, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll be lucky enough to survive.

Inside the Writer's Mind: A Closer Look

Many people seem to think it would be fun to live inside a writer’s head, because of all the clever things that whiz around in there, even when they are not writing.

“It must be great being you,” they’ll say, “because even if you’re at the most boring dinner party in the world, you can just sit back and tell yourself stories—in your mind!”

Such enthusiasm for the writer’s inner life reveals a profound misunderstanding of what writers actually do with their minds. This stems, I think, from a lack of understanding about what sort of person writes for a living, and what might happen at that dinner party if the writer in question opened their mouth and let everyone know what they were really thinking.

The tendency to romanticize the writer’s mind as a mystical fantasia of fascinating insights is quite common, and understandable, given that writers are such good-looking people. It is also highly unfortunate, since it fills people’s heads with all sorts of bizarre misconceptions.

For instance, people who do not write (let’s call them readers) tend to think that a writer’s job is to fill pages with magical streams of meaningful words. They have also been led to believe that writers are trying to create works that are beautiful and true, full of humanity and wisdom and lots of compelling verbs.

All of this is complete nonsense.

In fact, the writer’s true job has nothing to do with the act of “writing” as most people know it. No, the writer’s TRUE job is to PROTECT the rest of humanity from the tornado of crazy swirling around in his or her mind—to shield the unwitting public from the derangement and chaos of their inner thoughts, and, most especially, to hide the sick substance of their soul from the people they love and care about.

Properly understood, writing is not a form of self-expression, it’s a public service. Writers perform their civic duty by taking great care to package the outrageous abominations of their inner id into tidy, amusing tales that contain barely a whiff of the insanity behind them.

In truth, good writing has nothing to do with honesty, and everything to do with misdirection and subterfuge. Writers don’t set out to “tell a story,” their main goal is to cleanse the raw sewage of their thoughts enough so that they don’t get arrested. Every time they sit down to write, their biggest fear is that some of that sewage might leak out, prompting an unwanted call to the dreaded mind plumbers, who will come to the door in clean white coats waving orders to “fix” them.

Writers know all too well that if anyone ever found out what was really going on in their head, all hell would break loose. Consequently, writers spend most of their day trying as hard as they can to prevent these evil thoughts from escaping. To the casual reader, it may look as if their words are arranged in a pleasing order, but that’s only because the writer has worked very hard to make it look that way.

So next time you’re at a dinner party and find yourself sitting next to a writer who has nothing to add to the conversation, count yourself lucky. The last thing anyone wants is for a writer to open their mouth and say what’s actually on their mind. It may look like they’re doing nothing, just sitting there being bored, but the truth is they are working hard to protect you. It’s their job, and they take it seriously, so resist their charms and don’t encourage them to talk.

Otherwise, you’ll be sorry.

How Rich Authors Like Me Spend Their Money

One of the great things about being a writer is royalties. Every time someone buys my book, I get a portion of the money, and at the end of the month, Amazon sends me a check. I never know how much I’m going to get, but here’s a clue: they call them “royalties” because you have to be independently wealthy to live on them.

My first royalty check was for $27.13.  That may not sound like much, but to me, it was $27.13 more than I had before, so a celebration was in order. The money had to be spent.

But how?

The obvious first stop was the nearest Hardee’s, to wolf down a half-pound ThickBurger El Diablo. I love Hardee’s because, while every other fast-food chain in America is trying to offer “healthier” alternatives, Hardee’s has doubled-down on the heart-stopping goodness that American’s crave, offering a menu that basically says, “Fuck you, food Nazis.”

The excellently named ThickBurger El Diablo is a glorious amalgamation of grease-infused Angus beef, several strips of bacon, a slab of pepper-jack cheese, a layer of breaded cheddar-and-jalapeno-pepper poppers (!) supported on a bed of even more jalapeno peppers, all delivered on a giant squishy bun.

Straight out of the chute, the El Diablo weighs in at 1,380 calories and 92 grams of fat—but if you’re nice to the girl behind the counter, she’ll add a split hot dog (from the Hardee’s “Most American” series), which easily pushes it over 1,500 calories and 100 grams of fat. People who eat El Diablo’s don’t think these numbers are frightening, because they don’t think about them at all. I only include them here as a point of reference to illustrate how truly awesome these burgers are. I like them because they tend to get lodged in your digestive tract, making it unnecessary to eat anything else for several days, which saves money. And, since double-digit royalty checks only come once a month, that’s important.

I still had $18.22 left after my El Diablo binge, so I headed over to the liquor store to buy a case of Bud and some Swisher Sweets. Drinking beer and smoking cherry-flavored cigars is an under-appreciated pleasure. In fact, I’ve pitched the idea of doing an article on it to several notable “lifestyle” magazines, but I’m convinced that all those magazines are edited by socialist snobs who secretly want to live in France or Italy. They don’t care what real Americans do for fun; they’d rather tell their readers what imaginary Europeans are eating and smoking, as if it’s somehow “better.” It’s not. Trust me, Italians have no idea how to flavor a cigar.

After all that, I still had $6.89 burning a hole in my pocket, so I stopped in at a local convenience store and bought a small pack of fireworks. Individually, most of these fireworks are pathetic. But throw the whole box in a backyard campfire and the results can be quite impressive.

After the guys from the fire department questioned me, I reached into my pocket and found that even after all that celebrating, I still had twenty-six cents left. Instead of spending it on something frivolous, I chose to invest it. That’s what the jar in my kitchen drawer is for—retirement savings.

My next royalty check is due in three weeks, and I can’t wait. I’m eager to try The Big Slab at Famous Dave’s, which is 2,770 calories of finger-lickin’ fun. And every bite tastes like freedom.

Why More Famous People Should Move to Minnesota

It is said that fame is a prison, albeit one with nice toilets and some excellent catering. In places like Los Angeles or New York, for example, famous people get accosted all the time by adoring fans and camera-crazy paparazzi. That’s why famous people in those cities tend to stay home and order take-out—because walking around in public will inevitably attract two or three helicopters and a pack of nobodies, all desperate for a glimpse of you, an obvious somebody. Even us famous people don’t want that kind of attention, so most of us turn our homes into a kind of prison, rarely venturing outside except to take out the recycling.

One of the best things about being famous in Minnesota, however, is that people respect your privacy enough to leave you alone. In the Twin Cities, I can go into a grocery store any time of day or night, and no one will hassle me for an autograph. In other cities, I might get mobbed. But here, other shoppers will pretend they don’t see me. When I walk by, they’ll often make a big show out of examining the label on a mayonnaise jar or feigning interest in an oh-so-fascinating can of soup. Even when I make eye contact and hint with a wink that yes, I am that famous guy they’re thinking of, and no, I wouldn’t mind being asked for an autograph or selfie, they’ll avert their eyes and duck down the next aisle.

It’s refreshing.

Sometimes, Twin Citians are so respectful of my privacy that they won’t even attend my readings or other public events. I might be expecting two or three hundred people at a book signing, but ultimately find only four or five people audacious enough to break the silent pact between the ultra-famous and the incredibly invisible. Too, in the middle of the reading, suddenly mindful of their local manners, half of those people might get up and walk out.

Minnesotans are special that way.

Alone in a room with two or three hard-core groupies—people whose lust for a brush with fame is so intense that it overrides their Midwestern social conditioning—I still might have to fend off intrusive questions and sign a few books with witty insults, but that sort of thing comes with the territory. As distasteful as it is, famous authors are sometimes forced to mingle with their public—and, as long as you shower with good anti-bacterial soap afterwards and get two or three days of rest to recuperate, the trauma is rarely permanent.

My advice to famous people in other parts of the country who are tired of being so oppressively adored is: move to Minnesota. People here treat the famous like everyone else. It’s part of the culture, and it helps lighten the burden of fame. After living here a while, in fact, you might even start to miss all the attention you used to receive. But that’s how you know you’re really famous in Minnesota: when the public respects you enough to ignore you wherever you go.