Most people assume it takes a ton of talent to succeed as a novelist. But you need only read a few bestsellers to know that isn’t true.
If you want to be a novelist, there’s something much more important than talent. Something much easier than mastering the craft of writing.
Being utterly indestructible.
Every year, thousands of fiction writers are hospitalized or die – or worse – because they are unprepared for the tremendous physical and emotional strain of finishing, submitting and begging friends to buy their novel. That’s why I’m in the process of establishing the world’s first survival camp for aspiring novelists. I feel the best way to stop the suffering of rookie fiction writers is to put them through training that will make them wish they were dead.
Following are a few of the key components I plan to incorporate:
Core and gluteus training. All camp participants will be required to do an hour of planks, squats, crunches and lunges everyday. This will help dramatically reduce their risk of injury and horrific posture once they start working on their novel and are forced to sit on their ass for days on end. (Few people know this, but Stephen King’s tremendous productivity has less to do with his writing prowess and more to do with his CrossFit obsession.)
Bladder strengthening. Nothing ruins the flow of writing like the flow of urine. That’s why each camp participant will be given only one bathroom break a day. It will be painful and seem inhumane to begin with, but after a few days, happy campers will be able to “hold it in” with ease for chapters at a time. Those who cannot will be welcome to follow in the tradition of Charles Bukowski, who took great pride in soiling himself every other paragraph.
Sun-staring sessions. For eons, mothers have been telling their children, “Never stare directly at the sun.” That’s because mothers never expect their children to become novelists. (Or want them to.) The truth is, looking straight into the center of our glorious fiery star without the aid of sunglasses (in moderation, of course) is an excellent way to build the corneal strength authors need. Without such strength, a novelist cannot be expected to tolerate gazing endlessly at a blank computer screen during periods of massive writer's block. Camp participants who absolutely refuse to take part in the daily sun-gazing sessions will be given slightly less intense alternatives, such as staring directly at a shirtless Norwegian, or staring directly at George Hamilton’s teeth.
“The Rejection Room.” To better prepare camp participants for the crippling sense of failure and self-doubt they’ll experience as novelists, each will sit in a special “Rejection Room” where, for five straight hours, they will be forced to listen repeatedly to a recording that says, "Thank you for your submission, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to pass." The next day they will be placed back in the room for another five hours of even harsher rejection – total silence.
Simulated squalor. Just as important as preparing aspiring novelists for constant rejection is getting them accustomed to living in constant squalor. My survival camp will take care of that by providing participants with just one small plate of plain boiled pasta per day, an old dirty mattress to sleep on, and all the bottom-shelf liquor they can drink. The bountiful supply of cheap, horrible liquor is intended to serve a dual purpose: It will teach campers how to use alcohol to cope with constant squalor and rejection; and it will loosen their inhibitions, thus freeing them to write more boldly and daringly when not vomiting.
I’m currently seeking investors to help get my proposed survival camp for aspiring novelists off the ground. Only serious individuals with ample financial resources to contribute need contact me. In other words, I don’t want to hear from any writers.
ON HIS BEST DAYS, ZERO SLADE IS THE WORST MAN YOU CAN IMAGINE. HE HAS TO BE. IT'S THE ONLY WAY TO SAVE THE LOST GIRLS.