By Nicky Reid aka Comrade Hermit
Exile in Happy Valley
Its recently been brought to my attention by a well respected member of the libertarian literati that my writing more or less sucks. I wont name any names, god knows I’ve burned enough fucking bridges, but suffice it to say you would know who he is if I did. This isn’t a new complaint. I’ve heard it before but the certain terms of his criticism and the fact that I actually respect the son of a bitch made its way through my armor like a spear. Unfortunately for him, the only way I know how to cope with such turmoil is through my bad writing.
His gripe was a tired old sawhorse often tossed about by white cis-gender libertarians. What it basically amounts to is that he’s uncomfortable with my “personal” style of narrative. He’s revolted by all the I, I, I’s. I this, I that, I hate war, I have feelings, and I share them with my work, and apparently I shouldn’t fucking do this. Fair enough. My writing is personal. I’m a personal person. Things like war and the state effect me deeply so I express those feelings honestly through my prose. Apparently this along with my penchant for profanity makes my work unpublishable by the big shots of libertarian online journalism. Apparently my work is too unconventional to meet their sterling standards of literary integrity.
Well fuck them. Apparently those cunty know-it-alls have never heard of New Journalism. If it was up to these self-appointed Mandarins of the fifth estate Hunter S. Thompson, Tom Wolfe, and Matt Taibbi would have never been published. Apparently they skipped class the day their staunchy universities taught about Gonzo Journalism. The basic message that I’ve gotten from these people is that I’m too different. And they call themselves libertarians?