Meetings in coffee shops, volume I.

In an effort to find myself, I randomly emailed this writer whom I've never met, who probably thought I was a stalker or a pathetic hack looking for work (don't know which is worse) to see if he'd meet with me and give me some advice on how to break into the blogosphere (I fucking hate when people say that).

I sent him a link to my blog where I felt confident that my posts were just hip enough with the right amount of snark and cynism to befriend even the most accomplished (hack), charasmatic (self deprecating) blogger. So when I met him at the public place he suggested, I was surprised by the smugness.

So do you know anyone in the business? I mean other than me?
No. What the fuck do you think, jackass? We don't know each other, you think this is just fun for me: emailing someone I don't know to ask what they think I should do with my life.

Well for starters, you should start over on your blog. Like pick a topic or a theme and then write on that.

I fake looked for something to write with then gave up.

Then you should hit all the writer bars and clubs. That's how I get my leads. It's a lot of schmoozing so if you don't like that, you might be in the wrong business.

Fine. Whatever. I'll schmooze. Really I'll go to these places, get shitfaced, act better than everyone and let them think I'm the one they should be schmoozing with. So this will be fun.

And you should watch your language on your posts. You never know who could be reading and just get offended by it.

Yeah. Fuck you. He might as well tell me I suck and should just give up. That wouldn't have pissed me off as much. I love fuck. I use fuck. It helps me emphasize every-fucking-thing.

He said a couple of other things while my mind trailed off thinking how cool it was to see Mary Louise Parker and her son just ten minutes before, if I had enough money to take a cab back to work because it was going to rain, and how I really, really wanted those boots I saw online yesterday.

Needless to say, it didn't end well. The mother fucker didn't even buy my coffee. (Was I supposed to?) No leads. No real believable advice. Just another failed attempt to secure the secret to writing in today's world. Well not failed, the secret is: there isn't one.

So the moral is, well, nothing. Modern therapy says its good to vent so consider myself ventilated. But in all seriousness the creative class and its need to exude wisdom and arrogance all at once will never cease to piss me the fuck off. We're all trying here, we're all good at something. All of us made it to New York City on talent or determination or any other adjective found on an inspirational tear off calendar for God sakes, so have some respect. Actually, fuck respect. Have some empathy. Because you were once not as good as you pretend to be, after all.