Every masterclass begins with the same story: “Just keep going! Write! Don’t stop!” And you feel like a student receiving an erotic lesson in perseverance – the touch of the advice is soft, promising, almost intimate.
The problem? If every writer does it, the world would already be published. All the words would crash into each other, like hundreds of masturbating souls trying to reach climax at the same time. The search for the “perfect line” would become a collective orgy of texts.
“Write every day,” they say. Gentle as a caress, but soon you feel patience turning into tyranny. You write, write, write, and the world seems not only equal to your effort but to the efforts of millions of others – each with their own masturbation of words, each thinking they follow the secret key to publication.
“Follow the process,” they urge. And the process resembles an erotic ritual with no climax, because every participant does it in an absurdly identical way. The world would turn into an endless library of useless pleasure, where every book screams: “I am written, therefore I must exist!”
And so, you continue. And continue. But you realize that “Keep going!” is just an empty fetish, a ritual of the writer who believes in the ecstasy of advice. The absurdity is sweet: if everyone follows these rules, being published no longer holds any value – you’re just part of the endless litporno of writing, where the ecstasy lies in the effort itself, and the result is an empty library that no one can embrace.