*CRASS GENERALIZATION ALERT*
Now that that’s out of the way: men need to man up and fucking write.
I’ve bitched before about the legions of would-be Hemingways and Keroaucs that surround me here. I’m not doing that now. I’m not doing that now because as much misogynistic overhyped crap that is heaped at the feet of those two, at least they had the balls to sit their asses down and fucking write. You don’t even get to be scoffed at as some cringing little would-be Kerouac if you can’t put a goddamn pen to paper and produce more than a paragraph before calling it quits. Are you actually giving me the inspiration line? The “waiting for my muse” line? Does this look like Verona to you? Are you a goddamn bard?
The female writers I know do not have this problem. Sure, their descriptions may be flat and their plots nonexistent and they may have the diction of fourth graders, but they WRITE A WHOLE GODDAMN LOT. Novels. The plural of novel. As in, multiple novels. Are you hearing that, guys? You don’t get to write a few half-assed sentences, call yourself an auteur then wander off to play with yourself. You’ve got to fucking work. Writing is work. Anything worth doing is work.
Sit your ass down and work, motherfuckers.