Tuesday, February 5, 2013

how to write novels (part five)

A conference attendee in Pennsylvania writes:

How many books should I be prepared to write per year in order to be a successful novelist? 

Whoa there, hotshot. I think you're forgetting something:

And (squee) we've introduced something new, too:

Okay. I know what you're thinking. You're thinking to yourself: Man! That is a really big chocolate hole!

I know. I happen to be one of those writers who surrounds himself with some pretty big chocolate holes.

But getting back to PA's question:


You have everything out of order.

How can I teach you if you put everything out of order?

You are not ready to start writing until you name your house.

RULE NUMBER FIVE: (I think we're on rule number five) You must give your house a name.

Here's the deal: I will help you name your house. I will give you a name for FREE.

Writers simply must name their homes. It's our way of letting everyone else know how douchey we are.

Now, a simple name like Seacliff Manor is pretty damned douchey, especially if you live in Iowa.

But it's not good enough.

The name I am about to give you doesn't just sing--it's a Wagnerian opera pealing to the heavens the magnitude of your incontrovertible twathood.

Here is the name:


 Oh yeah.

Told you.

It's what I call my house, especially when I want my still-posting-a-Ron-Paul-yard-sign-biker-neighbors to beat the holy shit out of me.

Now, after you've named your house, you must also build a trophy case for all the writing awards you're going to win.

Give me chocolate!

Then, you invite your friends over so they can gaze at your writing trophy case at Scrivener's Mews.

Look, here's the deal: Invariably when I write shit like this, I get these bent-out-of-shape emails from people who actually live in douchebag-o-miniums named Scrivener's Mews.

Well, what do you expect?

If you don't want people to think you're a douche, I would suggest you change your house's name to something like this:


 Have you given me chocolate yet?