Immoral

While the rest of the country is goo-goo about Fred Rogers and throwing furniture at Donald Trump, I've been doing something less infantile. I finished a novel that required 1000 hours and $1000 to write. Intellectual investments aren't cheap. During the past three years, I've done that repeatedly, burned every cell of psychic power and every dollar at my disposal to create a literary legacy. Some of the money was mine, some of it was ponied up by friends and credit cards. The total could be measured in cans of coffee, cartons of cigarettes, ounces of pot, hundreds of thousands of words, or dozens of times that I've been dissed and cursed by my wife and daughter. You get what you pay for in life. I threw myself in the furnace of creative work.

Along the way, from time to time, I scratched on the walls like a prisoner. My writing office has a wall of paneling that I installed to seal up bare framing. Three years ago, the new wall was covered with an outline for Mars. Then a list of characters for A Portrait of Valor. About a year ago, I pasted duct tape to spell out a math equation, two feet tall, 2 + 1 = 0. Two years of writing plus one year to build a house had won me nothing. Six months ago I summed up my career as a storyteller, over 20 years of writing. I believe it to be an accurate self assessment, written in grease pencil on the wall, my Sharpie dry, no car or cash to buy another:

1. Retired
2. Exiled
3. Untalented
4. Stupid
5. Immoral

The first four items are excusable. I'm not the only snowflake who made an idiotic decision, believing wrongly that writing books was a good idea. Goodreads lists 50,000 similarly dumb self-published authors. As an experiment in promotion, I joined a Goodreads review group, reciprocal praise for featherweight crap. I got thrown out and banished because I refused to read and review a randomly assigned novel written by an illiterate dolt. Sometimes I think that writing should be a licensed profession.

Perhaps it is. I pitched dozens of agents and publishers, rejected every time. That's one of the reasons why I'm self-published, unread, ignored. Far more important to me personally, my work is archived in digital files at Lulu and Amazon. My laptop has screen cancer, and I didn't trust my heirs to perceive any value in my immoral creative output.

That's what distinguishes Wolf DeVoon from the other fifty thousand nitwits. The stories I write are immoral. My people are loose cannons, indifferent to the general welfare. They fall in love and fuck like minks, graphically told. They are straight white rich people, armed and dangerous, ready to kill or be killed. How immoral or politically incorrect can one be?

In this, I had little choice. The literature I admired was straight and white: Ayn Rand, Robert Louis Stevenson, Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Eugene Rhodes, C.S. Forester. All of their heroes were armed and dangerous.

I look at the modern world and feel sorry for my contemporaries. Their heroes are fags and harpies. Guns are too dangerous to touch, votes sacrosanct and supreme. I have friends who are LEOs and Federal agents, hamstrung by cowards, politicians, and community organizers, none of whom has to face life on life's terms, alone in the dead of night, kill or be killed. I like due process as well as the next fellow, but law courts move like molasses, months or years after someone fought for liberty and justice, shot a dangerous thug in the line of duty.

More than anything else, I studied and admired the Sons of Liberty, the Committee of Safety and the Continental Congress. Our nation was founded by straight white people, defended throughout two centuries of American history by men who put their lives on the line. What gays have contributed is obscene and impotent, a conspiracy of postal clerks and twinks. If I'm the last American novelist who celebrates manhood, fine. I'll take opprobrium, poverty, and humiliation gladly.

Forty percent of the Federal workforce is black -- and you wonder why government is inept and corrupt? Detroit, Chicago, and Baltimore destroyed by black voters, black city councils. That welfare recipients can vote is insane, generation after generation housed and fed by avowed communists and public service looters masquerading as educators. You're a chump, whitey, hunted like prey by street gangs and tax collectors. Go ahead, vote for sanctuary cities and open borders. You deserve nothing better than MS-13 and Mexican cartels.

It makes me laugh and smile, that Donald Trump is rich, white, and fabulously successful as a straight guy who loves beautiful women, married to elegant Melania. Up yours, Barack and Michelle and Hillary, last gasp of a corrupt "ethical" superstructure that no one needed, an object lesson in civics. The press can wring their hands and wail, but the jig is up. America is white, not colorblind or stupid. Freedom means freedom from government, lower taxes, strong borders, and civilian law enforcement, three quarters of it provided by private guards and the Second Amendment, an American common law right to defend ourselves.

It's the theme of my next project, food and water and health permitting.