Self-published Book Release: Rejections, 2016: Rejection, Rantings, and Beer-soaked Nights with Brahms, Bach, Mozart and Other Friends
Rejections, 2016: Rejection, Rantings, and Beer-soaked Nights with Brahms, Bach, Mozart and Other Friends
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I wrote up this mock interview the other day, heh heh heh. This morning, upon waking up — lying there, lying there — I thought of adding to it. That’s what writing does, for me. Gets me up and outta bed in the morning. Hungover. Shirtless. And out the window, from two blocks across, millennials are gathered. They can see me. Unshaven. Hair on fire, or at least waiting to be. For coffee. Kevita. And this book I wrote by my elbow.
With a sketch of my eyes on the back cover.
The book is the stream-of-consciousness vulgar persona I’ve cast into the ether. I write because I can’t help it. It helps me to help myself. If I could put it that way. O, yah. Yah. Sure. There are moments I left in the book that will seem wholly innocuous, cover letters for job applications, column pitches, and manuscript submissions. I wrote stories, too. About a lesbian schizoid, a pizza delivery dude stuck in himself. Plenty of pages dedicated to the worst parts, the terrible aspects of my character — of which, if I didn’t admit to, I would be a total make-believe monster.
I guess that’s why I compiled these rantings, some of which reflect the soulless life. Most are covered in drinking. Though, I believed in wanting to get better. So that’s why I kept at it. No matter what. I didn’t have a choice. No. It chose me. Yeah. I like that. Why not?
My dad used to tell me that I was “born at the wrong time.” I beg to differ. Literally. I’m here, writing to you instead. Like I have been for years. You just didn’t know it. Or maybe you did.
These are silent jabs. Right hooks. And if I punch myself in the face, then. So what?
My advice to people (though you or they didn’t ask) is to get people to think that you are crazy or insane. Then they will leave you alone.
This book is not about collaborations. It’s about playing with myself, in the literary sense. Now I know what you’re thinking, you haughty know-it-alls who want everything and everybody to be and think and have the same opinions as you. I didn’t need attention. I didn’t want it, in fact.
That was the gift.
It could also be a gift from hell. Who knows? There’s such a thing as bitter fruit. Sour grapes. Well, aren’t you just a bowl of cherries…
No, I’m definitely not a bowl of cherries, sister. Just a human being. Who drinks. And writes stuff out because what else is there to do?
I’ll stop here. I’ve other stuff to do, you know. Plus my neighbors can see me.
Writing this. Naked…
Wait! Comparisons. I know that helps, somewhat. If you’ve never read my writing, if you don’t know me — if we’ve never had a conversation — you might find this book (if you take it in your kind heart to give it a try) as some kind of an insult to injury. The book will have to speak to that end. I can’t apologize.
I can be criticized, sure. Or take it, yes. But.
I can’t claim any special precocity. This is the work of a bastard. To be sure. Pissing vinegar. Horrible, horrible. Bad words. Spittle. A terrible attitude problem. Problems with everyone and everything, in fact.
All I care about, though, are the words. A bouquet of clumsy words. Yeah, yeah, yeah. But you’re so beautiful. Etc., etc.
Influences for this book (other than rejection) include Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, Hunter Thompson, Hemingway, George Carlin, alcohol, classical music. An inverted Tony Soprano, with very few ladies around and just enough loot to keep a hamster rattling in his cage.
And so that’s what I did. For a little while. Things are different now, yes. I got it out of me. I’m getting it all out of me.
That’s how we move on. WE INSANE SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT.
No. Not insane. Crazy.
Yeah.
Words are my ammunition. I’m locked and loaded, baby.
If a lone wolf screams into the night, and there’s nobody around to hear it, does it make a sound?
I guess that’s why I keep Einstein next to the toilet, my degenerate-derelict haze emblazoned between the tiles on the walls.
Jab, jab. Hook.
But you wouldn’t know a good thing if it came up and slit your throat!
Jab, jab. Hook.
Motherfucker.
***BUTTERFLIES ARE SPECIAL BECAUSE THEY ONCE WERE WORMS***
MOCK INTERVIEW
Bryan William Myers: On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your book?
Bryan William Myers: 666.
Bryan William Myers: What is the genre?
Bryan William Myers: Goth punk disaster porn.
Bryan William Myers: Could you name three of the book’s subjects?
Bryan William Myers: Self-loathing. Masturbation. And schizophrenia.
Bryan William Myers: What do you hope people will think when they read your book?
Bryan William Myers: Whoa. He’s fucked up. I’m glad I’m not him.
Bryan William Myers: Who or what are some of your influences?
Bryan William Myers: Philadelphia Gas Works. PECO Energy Company. And Comcast Cable.
Bryan William Myers: Do you have a favorite quote from the text?
Bryan William Myers: “If you weren’t here, I’d walk outta here right now.”
Bryan William Myers: Do you have a favorite story?
Bryan William Myers: Yes. Three.
Bryan William Myers: Well. What are they?
Bryan William Myers: Being the world’s worst lover. How I learned I’m a domestic extremist. And a very, very, very short story about a webcam girl named Ariel.
Bryan William Myers: Are there any reviews?
Bryan William Myers: Yes.
“Vulgar. Insane. Insipid … I had to put it down.” — Nathaniel Heroine, The System Is My Friend Review
“We’ll never be friends.” — Ex-girlfriend
“I can’t tell if you’re just full of shit or insane.” — Ex-girlfriend
“You know, I’m starting to think that there is really something wrong with you.” — Ex-employer
“I thought you were somebody else.” — Ex-girlfriend
“Fuck you. You’re a terrible person.” — Ex-girlfriend
I made one of those up.
Bryan William Myers: Did you learn anything from this year-long experience of constant rejection, isolation and nights alone with music, beer, wine, whiskey, tobacco and your imagination?
Bryan William Myers: Yeah. Writing, like life, is a lot of hard work. You’ll never get anywhere if you don’t…
An electromagnetic pulse suddenly is launched somewhere in the vicinity of Montana, Idaho, Nebraska or Kansas, wiping out the electrical grid for a majority of the entire continent of North America.
The interview ends.
***IF THERE ARE ANY MISTAKES, IT’S COZ I WAS DRUNK***
