I went to a writing festival once,
stepped in and was presented with an aging, toothless, mutton-chopped hippy
who told me that today’s writing lacks authenticity.
Next to him was a pretty young hipster chick who agreed and
said she only writes on a typewriter.
(I reckon they went home together)
I strode through the stalls of limited press,
small press, limited release, avant-garde, brand new, shunning success,
can’t-stress-this-enough: ‘we won’t sell a single copy’,
who convinced me not to submit
‘cause my pants weren’t plaid and my shirt was clean.
Then came a speech by an experienced writer,
(the only one at the gig with a book deal)
bangin’ on about technique and form,
ignored by the crowd who only came
to network and snake into a spot on Oprah.
I attended a workshop on blogging and new media,
lead by some cock with a moustache and clear-lensed wayfarers,
who ran Australia’s most successful site on the writing scene.
He recommended appropriate SEO tagging for Google
(to up your hit count).
I busted out, threw my chair at his fucked up hair-
cut and screamed “A MAN IS NOT AN INTERNET”.
I was escorted out by burley bow-tied bastard,
who lead me into an alley and blindfolded me so I couldn’t see
him stealing this last line.
If you read this poem,
but don’t agree,
then fuck off and congratulations on writing the next Harry Potter.