I miss the Writers of Old. . .

I hate to say it, but writers have become very boring these days. Gone are the days of heavy drinking, heavy partying and crazy lifestyles. Gone are the tragic souls like Kurt Vonnegut who tried to commit suicide, or Ernest Hemingway who actually succeeded.

Have you looked on the back cover of the last novel you read? I bet your bottom dollar the writer was dressed in a finely pressed suit with an expensive shirt, or perhaps even a turtleneck. Their profile pictures make them look more like bankers than writers. And beside from that, these writers are all . . . gasp. . . happily married. I mean what is with that? They all seem to exercise, eat their vegetables and life otherwise happy healthy lives.

Don’t they understand as writers they can get away with practically anything? I mean short of killing somebody of course. Well, even that is probably debatable. They can wear what they want, behave in any debase manner they desire and people will automatically forgive them. Why? Because their writers.

It’s like having an unlimited hall pass! I mean look at Norman Mailer who was a womanizer, was married eight times and stabbed his second wife with a penknife. He was also vocal in his homophobia. Only a writer could get away with acting like that. If only Phil Robertson, from Duck Dynasty, was a writer he wouldn’t be in so much hot water.

And then there was Charles Bukowski. Can you picture the man Time Magazine dubbed the “Laureate of American lowlife”, and who wrote a column called Notes of a Dirty Old Man being so adjusted as any modern writer?

If there ever was a savour to modern literature it would be Chuck Palahniuk, author of cult hits like Fight Club and Choke. For starters, he’s gay so that automatically gives him street cred and he participated in the Cacophony Society, a maladjustment group who cause disruption and general chaos, but even he is looking more like a banker these days.

Where is the modern-day Ian Fleming who drank and womanized himself into an early grave? Or F. Scott Fitzgerald who died at age 44 after two heart attacks from drinking too much? Why can’t we go back to those splashy characters? Or Graham Greene who suffered from bipolar disorder and suffered from depression, and his extensive travels caused him to be recruited by MI6, the British intelligence service? Now we get writers who were insurance salesmen, lawyers and advertisement executives. I mean how boring! I can almost feel my fingers going to sleep as I type.

Oh. . . you want to talk about me? I’m a rebel, I tell you. I’m a breath of fresh air! I drink tea more than I drink coffee. (I mean come on, they have more antioxidants.) I go to bed at nine or ten if I can help it. I didn’t stay up for New Years. I get drunk on one glass of wine. The craziest thing I’ve ever done is probably river rafting in crocodile infested water. Yeah, that’s right! So please call me hard-core.

Mmm. . . I guess insurance, lawyers and ad men aren’t so bad after all.

Please check out my latest Thriller Shame the Devil

#writersofold