In 2020 Netflix released Korean black comedy called parasite.
“The struggling Kim family sees an opportunity when the son starts working for the wealthy Park family. Soon, all of them find a way to work within the same household and start living a parasitic life.”
It was a wild ride. Twists and turns you wouldn’t believe and it got me thinking.
(Especially after I’ve had a few shots of tequila)
As a writer I need to remember this:
“Your prose is a parasite. (Let it eat your enemies)
We all have stories we’re nursing like a back-alley stab wound.
The one that pulses with your DNA, your trauma, your weird obsession with sentient mold?
Someone will read it and recoil like you’ve force-fed them a McRib smoothie.
Good. Let them choke.
And so I sit here and look at what Art is and realise it’s not a consensus. Your job isn’t to be liked. Your job is to be a feral little goblin hurling your truth into the world.
There’s some dirty and accurate math in the world when it comes to being a person who pens words for a living…
For every person who calls your work “a revelation”, there’s another who’ll hiss, “This reads like a chatbot fucked a CVS receipt.”
Your dialogue? To some, it’s Sorkin-sharp. To others, a drunken Morse code.
Your metaphors? Either “Kafka in a waffle house” or “What the fuck is a ‘soul-tarantula’?”
Your climax? A fireworks show of feels or a wet fart in a library.
There is no cure for taste. Only survivors.
Whether you’re painting, writing or composing anything musical. Haters are gonna hate and you need to weaponise that hate.
Treat your work like it’s some kind of bioweapon
You’re not writing. You’re infecting…
Mutate aggressively. Let your prose ooze. Let it sprout tentacles. Let it be the literary equivalent of that one unkillable office cold.
Resist the antidote. Beta readers say “tone it down”? Ignore them. “Tone” is for church choirs and LinkedIn posts. You’re here to scream.
Outlive the host. Your story will outlast its critics. The Roman Empire fell. Fifty Shades did not.
Collect bad reviews like war trophies…
Frame them. Wear them as armour. Let them fuel your spite-engine.
“This author should be banned from vowels.” Good. You’ve weaponised the alphabet.
“I’d rather French-kiss a woodchipper.” Better. You’ve earned a sensory experience.
“Not even my therapist could unpack this.” Best. You’ve broken someone’s brain.
High fives all around…
Your voice isn’t supposed to be palatable. Palateable is for yogurt and politicians.
Write like a werewolf on espresso. Teeth out. Grammar butchered. Let the words howl.
Marinate in your niche. Love cryptid erotica? Write a love triangle between Bigfoot, a GPS, and a disgraced rodeo clown. Own it.
Fuck the “universal.”
The universal is a McDonalds cheeseburger. You’re a durian fruit. Polarising. Pungent. Perfect.
February is here and I want to inspire you to just go absolutely mental at your craft.
Go all in. Go insane. Create work that’ll make everyone look at you as if you’re losing your mind.
Control the chaos. Not the crowd.
Write like the world’s ending tomorrow and you’ve got one last middle finger to launch into universe.
And when the thinkpieces come? When the Twitter-threads bloom like mold in a frat-house shower? Laugh. Laugh until you cough up a lung.
Because you? You’re not here to be good.
You’re here to be unforgettable.
Stephen Walker
https://stphnwlkr.com/list
P.S. I’ve put the tequila down and I’m going for a walk out in the fresh cold. These projects aren’t going to finish themselves…