I Am Not a Blogger

Oh, hello there. Come on in. Kick off your shoes. Have a seat. Slide those leather-bound books off of the sturdy oak chair that I made myself and take a load off. Have a look around.

A blog? What? Oh…you mean a Weblog. No, sorry. You won’t find a weblog here. I’m not a blogger, you see – I’m a novelist.

What’s the difference? I’m glad you asked.

First of all, bloggers wear tennis shoes. Me, I own a pair of well-worn leather shoes. I bought them that way, because they looked like the shoes a novelist would wear. See that worn patch in the sole? They got a machine in the factory that does that.

Bloggers watch movies. Not me. I watch the blood-red sun sinking in to the beige expanse of the horizon. That’s what I watch. And you know what? I watch it through the window of my one-room shack. That’s right, motherfucker. One room shack. Novelist.

I got a pot-belly stove, an old steel-framed bed, a roll-top desk and a chamber pot. It’s novelly as fuck.

Did I mention my typewriter? It weighs 75 pounds. Wrought iron. You can see the hammer-marks where the smithy beat the metal in to shape. Each key requires 15 pounds of force to compress and it only works with papyrus. I have to make my own ink from ashes and bone black. Do you know where to get bone black? Nah, you wouldn’t. You’re just a blogger. I don’t know what color you’d say the ink is, but I call it stygian. Novelist.

Look out my window and you’ll see my pickup. It’s a 1978 Ford F150. I named it Faulkner, because novelist. I drive it to town every other day to buy pipe cleaners, tobacco, Cognac, and grass-fed butt-steaks. Speaking of, feel free to help yourself to a trencher of rich stew from the tin bucket atop the stove. Careful. It’s hardy.

I only eat hardy foods because I need to keep my strength up; the exertion required to type on my archaic machine leaves me weak and clammy, my hands gnarled like the roots of a gallows tree. You see that fucking simile, bro?

Novelist. All day long.

I must retire to my bed now, though I prefer to call it a pallet. Pallet feels more rich, more sumptuous.

See yourself out and never forget: I am not a blogger. I am a novelist.

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