Aggressively slurps coffee while typing this from said murder shed
It’s not a shed. It’s just a kitchen counter top but murder shed sounded cooler tbh.
Okay so I woke up a little spicier than usual. Mainly because I’ve seen a lot of my creative friends panicking at the current state this world is in while we inevitably spin towards the sun and cease to exist.
You know what? The world’s a dumpster fire powered by rich assholes who think they’re playing SimCity with actual human lives.
We’ve got wars sprouting up like mushrooms after rain, billionaires playing space cowboys while telling us to eat cricket protein, and tech bros trying to convince us that their algorithmic word-vomit is somehow “creative disruption.”
But you know what? FUCK THAT NOISE.
I’m sitting here, pantsless (as is my natural state), writing stories about space wizards and murder hornets because that’s what humans DO.
We make shit. We’ve been making shit since we first smeared berry juice on cave walls to draw dicks. It’s in our DNA, nestled right between our need for tacos and our ability to anthropomorphise literally anything with eyes.
(And when Tumblr was the thing. Oh lord did I read some VERY out there stories that were anthropomorphised.)
Anyways…
These Silicon Valley vampires can shove their “AI-generated content” up their venture-capitalised assets. They’re trying to McDonald’s-ify creativity, turn art into some assembly-line bullshit that hits all the right metrics but has all the soul of a corporate team-building exercise.
You want to know what matters? The weird-ass story burning a hole in your brain. That poem that makes no fucking sense but feels like a punch to the solar plexus. That painting that looks like your cat threw up a rainbow but MEANS SOMETHING.
Make your art. Make it badly. Make it weird. Make it yours. Because while they’re all trying to optimise and monetise and sanitise everything, we’ll be here in the trenches, covered in ink and paint and coffee stains, creating REAL shit.
Because that’s what we do. We’re storytellers, not content generators. We’re artists, not prompt engineers.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go yell at some cats down my back alley and write about apocalyptic bee colonies like the old man that I am.
Stephen Walker
Ernest Hemingway on Writing
P.S. Did I mention I’m not wearing pants? Because that’s important to the creative process.