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There are times when I really think that I'd have been better off if I had done something different with my life. Urine sample provider to professional athletes in France, CPR practice dummy, elephant shit shoveler, or egg doner (I'm a dude). All of these interest me more and would probably be more rewarding both mentally and monetarily than what I'm doing now. But since I've been getting the emails, it's almost NANOMO time again, I've decided to once again try to become the next great hack writer. I know. I know. I'm already a hack writer, but why not go for greatness? And in case you all (hi mom) think that's a joke, I'd like to remind you that ONLY hack writers make money. Sure, sure, if I was from Venezuela or Argentina, I could make a few buck off of artsy-fartsy thousand-page odes to atmosphere and unrequited love. I'd probably get awards, maybe even a Nobel (if the title was right, say "Disappeared Love's Foggy Remembrance" or "Humid Cobblestones of Mi Familia"). Unfortunately, there are just not enough NPR listening, female, public transit riding, recent college graduates on the face of the earth to buy enough paperback copies to feed my damn kids. Nowadays all those chicks are using Kindles anyway, so most copies will end up in furniture store displays and laid artfully on end tables in the windows of stuck-up wine and cheese bars. No, the money is made by people completely unafraid to suck. I AM THAT MAN! But seriously, the "best" writers write shit. I'm not talking bad, I'm just talking crap. Crap is what I, and most people, like to read. Like any art, the popular stuff is always crap. Think of what you see more of, DaVinci or Dogs playing poker? Death of a Salesman or Wicked? The Adventures of Ford Fairlane, Rock 'n Roll Detective or Transformers 2? So, this November, during National Novel Writing Month, instead of procrastinating on my version of the Great American Novel, I will be procrastinating on the Crappy American Novel Picked up for $9.99 in an Airport Gift Shop. Those are the books I read now, those are the books everyone really reads anyway, so expect me to not complete my version of "Sixty Magical Serial Killer Navy Seals" by the end of November. I may drop it over on my long neglected scrap paper blog. Why not? People sell books off of their Twitter feed. I can sell a book off of a dormant blog post.
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