Dear World

Please Kill Me,

I dabble in social media a bit, BlueSky mostly (…@antwancrump.bsky.social, if you’re nasty). Every so often there’s this weird discourse about whether an author needs to read to write well. It’s nothing new. 

For anyone who’s traversed the minefield of writer chatrooms, forums, Reddit pages, dive bars, social media scrolls, or even just listened to the night-howls of raging creatives (…drunkenly damning the crescent moon…) you know that there are some pretty odd ducks out there, with their own series of ass-plunging theories that really only make sense if you’ve been up for eighteen days straight and beaten over the head with a lead pipe…there are some good ones too, I guess. But they tend to regurgitate the same mundane, hum-drum, mostly boring tripe that any true writer worth their salt might tell you (…kind of like what I’m about to do now!). 

For starters…DUH!!!! 

It goes without saying that any aspiring creative who wishes to write well on any metric or to any degree will need some semblance of exposure to the writing of others, if only as a means of gauging what’s been done, what can be done, what’s comprehensible, how to articulate the incomprehensible, and OBVIOUSLY how to communicate with readers in a way that won’t send them spiraling into some bored, knock-knee, pseudo-demonic tantrum (…if you’re aiming for that, there are rules and standards of understanding to get that done as well…even the Bible was written with relevant context and proper syntax). 

I don’t care how “CrEAtiVE” or “ORigiNaL” you think you are; if no one understands what the hell you’re saying, you may as well be playing silent Scrabble with Stevie Wonder. That being said, I’m not here to punch down on the lazy illiterates who dream of seeing their name in lights for ostensibly no reason (…beyond their own masturbatory pleasure).

I’m not here to dash your dreams and fantasies of crowds of thousands anxiously awaiting your pig-headed spiel. I’m not even here to discourage those who find themselves in that stagnant camp of wanting—desperately clinging to machinations of some prodigious rise as you eat ramen in your mother’s basement… Rather, I want to investigate what truly lies beneath this pervasive idea that “Authors don’t need to read to write well.”

For my money, I’d guess that the idea comes from a place of ignorance. Not necessarily the Dunning-Krueger effect (…because even the laziest writers will acknowledge the physical toll, emotional labor, and psychological strain) but something related to it—a happenstance of illogical thought that stems from the bitter reality that EVERYONE thinks they can write without putting in more effort than it takes to text on the toilet.

Those who text think they can write like Charles Dickens. Those who shitpost think they’re in a stream with Douglas Adams. Those who’ve been forced to type a 200-word creative essay in grade school think they’re the next Stephen King. And those who’ve watched Harry Potter and written a review on Letterboxd (or wherever) think the only difference between them and JK Rowling is opportunity (…and a troubling relationship with the Trans community). 

Again, this comes from a place of ignorance—a mental battlefield where scrolling through Instagram and responding to a post or watching movies with closed captions on is as hard as writing a novel or screenplay. 

(If you’re not quite sure where you stand on that front, I’ll help you out: If that last sentence confused, bewildered, or upset you, you likely haven’t done enough reading and potentially have no fucking clue what you’re doing #SurprisedYouGotThisFar). 

But again, again I don’t want to spend too much time pontificating about the irrational or annoying. I just had a bit to spew about this (…let’s give it too much credit…) phenomenon, and ramble about what I think is really going on under the hood. People widely believe that the bar for authorship (…to the extent of completing projects) is rather low. 

Honestly, I can’t quite disagree with them. However, if you’re going to try your luck and hope for even a modicum of the success that you rub yourself to at night, you’d do well to look into the world you seek to conquer—that’s to say nothing about the AI-dependent freaks who’ve got a rude awakening coming their way the moment after they type “The End.” 

Spoiler Alert: The only true end will be your career. Hope you had fun stealing!

*gentle wave*

*floats away on door while you ride the Titanic*

To the rest of you, if you truly want this (…or any goal that requires skill…), shut up, nut up, and put in your 10,000 fucking hours… You’ll be better for it. You’ll be glad you did. And if you feel neither of those things, well… maybe you just don’t love it enough (…too devastating??? Okay, okay. #MyBad)…

*OR*

(more softly)

—maybe you simply don’t KNOW enough. 

I’d suggest that you read a good book.

Until Next Time,

—Antwan Crump

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Kwame Nyong’o is trapped between worlds…

In the streets of New York, he faces the harsh, material realities of a modern city. However, in his blood lies an ancient duty: a spiritual calling passed down through generations, marked by vivid visions, recurring dreams, and violent seizures. Under the demanding guidance of his eccentric Uncle Mosi, Kwame is trained to navigate his visions and wield the tools of his ancestral mantle… but legacy doesn’t pay the bills.

***SPOILERS***

Desperate to ease his family’s mounting financial and medical burdens, Kwame uses his gifts for profit—the consequences are swift and profound. As supernatural forces threaten to destroy his life, Kwame must expel his demons while paying the price for warping his soul.

From the author of Apostate, Butterflies, and The Suicide Pod, Veal explores the intersection of the modern and the ancient, weaving an intense and unforgettable narrative that’s sure to leave a scar. For fans of Black Mirror, urban fantasy, and psychological horror.