It’s sad that after Goins’ bold salute to mediocre writing, he’s now changed his mind, calling “jack-o-all-trades” morons who like sports.
Ironically, he’s talking ’bout writing; but writing is 1 o’ the few industries where having well-rounded skills is a boon—a’least for fiction writers. Fiction-writing involves creating believable worlds, which are usually inspired by, even if not based on, the real world. Knowledge o’ the real world can involve knowledge in everything. Want to write a good biologist & truly understand their point o’ view? Researching biology will help. & yes, though sports don’t interest me, even I acknowledge that knowledge o’ sports would benefit someone writing a sports story.
Contrariwise, no one will ever be a master @ writing, since one can always improve—though perhaps that applies to everything.
But then, I don’t think this article was meant as a serious philosophical question—for 1, “serious” & “philosophical” never go together. ’Stead it’s meant to congratulate himself for being “nerdy” & “alternative,” man. Everyone says this ’bout themselves—even people who were bullies; it’s just that everyone likes to think o’ themselves as victims who succeeded gainst unbelievable odds, rather than honestly acknowledging that we all succeed ’cause we weren’t born in a place where children are forced to fight for their survival gainst rabid tigers (’less you were, reader, in which case you admittedly probably did earn your success gainst unbelievable odds & you may ignore this critique).
I listened to Led Zeppelin and wore baggy T-shirts. I was not cool, and I paid the price for it in social capital. That awkward feeling of being left out lingers with me even today. Because I still do things that make me weird.
He must’ve grown up in the 50s when not following a carefully-orchestrated set o’ instructions for walking down a hall got you labeled an insane commie. See, in my school days, being “weird” was considered cool—& by weird I mean the definition he uses: not authentically gross to society, like a man wearing skirts & makeup or having a massive facial deformation for life, but liking a famous band & wearing imperfectly-pressed clothing. Harmless weird: the kind o’ weird that feeds the feeling o’ rebellion but without actually having the immense social pressures that warrant that feeling. All I hear ’bout is how awesome being a nerd is, since it fits the pattern perfectly, even if their only criteria is that they push buttons on a hunk o’ plastic plugged into a TV every once in a while.
This is all used to regurgitate the same myth o’ the genius loser who becomes rich—where I come from, if you’re not living every second in cold-sweat fear o’ frostbite from wandering the subarctic urban wilderness in homelessness, you’re rich, so I’m going to assume Goins is rich—due to their genius loserness. This despite the fact that social skills are the most useful skill for success & the reality that most powerful people are actually morons. Have you ever listened to a business executive or politician open his—usually his—mouth? Those are the geniuses who rule the world?
The irony is that the world’s true losers probably aren’t the 1s sitting round measuring their victim dicks—probably ’cause they’re actually victims, & thus too busy running from the totalitarian government snatchers hunting them down & can’t type ’cause their hands have been chopped off & had arthritis, anyway. Also they have cancer, but that hasn’t impeded them from blogging yet.
Life is not an accident for these people [“people who matter,” as opposed to those who should just kill their shitty selves]; they are living intentionally.
You hear that victims o’ that tsunami? Stop letting accidents rule your lives, already! ’Course, many o’ these people don’t have lives anymore, so we can see that Goins’ philosophy has turned true!
This is the cost of greatness. (And I’m learning to embrace it.)
Ha, ha, ha! What a cocksucker.
I also love the book he quotes that uses “you” to contrast those other “fools,” the intended audience obviously intended to feel the author’s hand reach out into their pants. “O yes! O yeah! Please tell me I’m special mo’. O yeah… That’s so goood.”
[Paragraphs that can be summarized as, “Having capabilities that deserve praise for being based on effort require actual effort, dumb ass.”]
I’m glad that he feels the need to tell me this. I’m sure there are plenty o’ people who somehow missed the billion other inspirational puke smacking their foreheads & going, “You mean sitting on my couch & scratching my dick doesn’t get me rich?” ’Course, as we gleaned earlier, this article isn’t aimed @ those people. You’re obviously not 1 o’ them. No, he’s talking ’bout the bad, lazy people—the poor slobs, the dirty people. Essentially, he’s talking ’bout social stereotypes—ironically attacking the very misfits o’ which he only pretends to be. It’s the same reactionary bizarro world regurgitated a million times: us poor rich geniuses are being pulled down by the immensely powerful lazy bums!
You will be tempted to resign and give in to the taunts of your enemies and critics.
Yes, lets shake our fists @ the mean ol’ critics. They aren’t artists after all, who put work into their satire as much as other writers. No, only those who don’t satire artists—the very class that coincidentally always makes this point—can be considered artists. Artists, after all, are very sensitive, unlike those lazy bums who scratch their groins & treat their radioactive poisoning as an accident.
How many enemies do writers earn? Maybe if these writers are revolutionaries actively trying to topple governments. But is some dork who scribbles inspirational “lit fics” ’bout dogs with cancer—I don’t know if Goins writes these; he could write sci-fi parodies for all I know—truly going to rile up someone ’nough to make them call for their blood & want to wear their skin as a suit?
I mean, I always felt that way ’bout my favorite authors, but that was out o’ love, not ’cause we’re enemies. Why can’t you understand basic empathy, Goins, you sociopath?
Your hands will crack and bleed, your back will hurt, and you will cry.
Well, a’least I got this part right. Though I didn’t even know this had anything to do with me writing; I never even thought ’bout why ’twas so fun.
In all of this, you will be humbled and humiliated…
I’ve noticed that those who praise humility rarely exhibit it themselves, & this includes Goins, who just earlier admitted his love for the cost o’ his greatness. This is probably ’cause humble people quickly learn that in a cut-throat competitive world, admitting that others are better is ’bout as effective as a mouse lying right before a cat. ’Course, the hunt also involves headology & thus pretending to be humble is a great way to lure your victims into a false feeling o’ safety so the pounce will be mo’ successful.
What I’m saying is, Goins wants to eat people, though you shouldn’t be surprised to find such behavior in the kind o’ maniac who listens to Led Zeppelin o’ all things.
Understand what you’ll have to give up, how you’ll be misunderstood, and the loneliness associated with any kind of greatness or leadership.
Yes, people who control others are the true victims o’ society. For instance, I always remember whenever I see some poor Yemenese person whose name will never be remembered by anyone be blown into bloody bones & ashes from a drone dropped on her, a tear ran down the President’s cheek as he pondered the loneliness deep in his heart from all o’ the people who don’t understand him, man. Then he writes shitty beat poetry & that sympathy all goes ’way.
See, I must confess my philosophical difference: if I were to compare leaders & “great”—successful—people to, say, mentally-aberrant homeless bums, I’d say the latter is probably a tad bit lonelier. Granted, the former is probably only having his—usually his, let’s be honest here—dick stroked so his “greatness”—his power—will rub off on them.
In fact, I’d wager that a society where people think only ’bout how they can be masters over other people & how the spirit o’ the bullies from their past still block their paths with said spirits’ evil mediocrity might be a quite lonely place to live no matter who you are. I’m sure Goins would disagree; but then, he’s surely part o’ the conspiracy gainst me, which is why all o’ my fan fiction are rejected by those corporate fascists @ Penguin, just as those corporate fascists in high school called my stories submitted to the papers gay—they were bisexual, you ditzy Cises!
For me, it’s been writing — pursuing how to do something as best I can (and giving up a lot of other pursuits in the process).
You know, I take back everything I said before—well, ’cept for the part ’bout me liking to wear my favorite writers’ skin like a suit. Consider this line & then look back & consider the quality o’ work he’s crafted. I change my tune: Goins, you now have my heartfelt sympathy.
The irony in all of this is that in my disdain for sports I’m actually learning what it means to be an athlete — what it means to strive and strain and push through the pain to achieve a goal.
[There was a pause here while I jabbed a fist into my maw to stifle the loud guffaws. Well, that & ’cause I like the taste o’ my flesh.]
I, too, grit my teeth when I feel the gravelly pain stump into my fingers from the billion keyboard taps! ’Course, this isn’t from my writing, but from my simple joy o’ slamming my fingers gainst hard objects. But still!
If the idea of hustling like you’ve never hustled and hurting like you’ve never hurt before actually appeals to you, then there’s hope.
Then I guess there’s no hope, ’cause that phrase sounds terribly written. When I think o’ “hustling,” I don’t think “work”; I think shitty dancing.
Even worse, you probably stole that line from a Poison song.
As for me, I’m tired of being good at many things, of being a jack-of-all-trades. I want to be a master of one.
I’m always awed by the narcissism o’ Americans that lead every 1 o’ them to believe that they’ll be the master o’ something. It’d be refreshing to see 1 who actually does the math & realizes that the net # o’ masters is far lower than the net # o’ not-even-jacks-o’-all-trades & acknowledge they’ll probably end up a superfluous office drone—or worse, on the run from drones dropped by totalitarian government snatchers.
Do you admit that you’re a superfluous office drone/insane bum on the run from drones dropped by totalitarian government snatchers & that you’re a sick fuck who smashes your fingers gainst hard objects? Share in the comments.
