Before sitting down to write, even before choosing the height of your chair, learning how to type, or even what to write about—-for the writer with natural talent this will all come-—be sure to sever all relations with friends and significant others. The writing process, once commenced, is a roller coaster of failure and success, elation and anguish; it will most certainly render the writer an all-around more interesting person, although it will not seem so to friends and significant others. To them, the writer will be a selfish, introverted, reclusive hermit. Nothing else will apparently matter and, as the writer slides into an increasingly slovenly and unkempt state, the writer’s friends and significant others will slowly abandon their attempts at communication and ‘write off’, in a manner of speaking, the unfortunate writer as a lost cause.

     The writer may return a call or an email from one of such friends upon finishing a particular section, but he is unlikely to meet with much success at this point and even if he does will, by this stage, be reduced to mainly short, choppy vocalizations resembling, but not necessarily identifiably as, human speech. Friends will not understand this nor will the writer’s frustration likely allow him the patience to explain to such friends the inevitable hopelessness of this newfound introversion. In the face of this frustration, the writer may grumble a few vocalizations but will, ultimately, come to accept his place and fall silent.

     The case with significant others, however, is a bit more sensitive, especially if in the luckless circumstance of cohabitation. The writer’s unfortunate cohabiter will undoubtedly have opportunity to observe the writer in his natural environment: lost in jungles of ideation and labyrinths of organizational notes, not to mention sudden bouts of somnambulism one night and insomnia the next. The writer and his vocalizations will, as a matter of course, become subject to the caprices of productivity, which will leave any expression of love or emotion between writer and cohabiter similarly subject to the caprices of the writer’s productivity. The writer may wake on a Monday morning, have a productive 2-3000 word session, and have wild, passionate sex before sundown; then, upon waking Tuesday morning and having a markedly horrific and unproductive session, may not want to have sex ever again or even look upon the cohabiter with any sense of recognition until after his next productive session.

     In these circumstances, kissing will be the first to go, followed by sex-—which will come to be replaced by internet porn-—at which point any sort of affection whatsoever will occur only as an afterthought to a messy breakup. Thus, any hope for consistency on the part of the cohabiter will of course prove to be misguided, but as Wilde so wisely reminds the lowly writer-—who presumably has now sacrificed friends and love for the as yet unknown cause-—'consistency is the last refuge of the unimaginative'.

     With superfluous people now out of the way, the next order is to get an agent. There are two kinds of agents: literary agents and chemical agents, the latter of which naturally being the most important. There are several classes of agents to choose from. For the novice writer who has yet to experience the depth of the writer’s block crevasse or the torment of sleepless nights spent cursing the itch that won’t abate, 1-2 cups of percolated coffee; for the intermediate writer who, through months and years of solitary confinement, has learned to bear the burning cross of the artist, 3-4 cups of percolated coffee and an optional espresso to round off the edges; for the advanced writer who, having published numerous stories and essays along with perhaps a novel or two, has blown way past the flailing efficacy of standard caffeination, two or more double espressos mixed with guarana to preempt the uncharacteristic sleepy effect of the body’s having grown accustomed to a regular dose of some 400mg of caffeine plus the effect of guarana, which is somewhere in the ballpark of another 300mg. Do this once before breakfast, once after lunch, and, if stretched for ideas, once after dinner and the writer is in business.

     In the event the writer should run out of the said chemical agent or find himself physically separated from it, he should then commence quaffing alcohol until the decaf headache subsides and the imaginative strain reappears. Without a chemical agent, unthinkable as it is, the minimum clarity necessary to launching any writing career is unattainable. A literary agent-—unless he or she can recommend a good chemical agent-—is optional.

     After a few cups of coffee or liquor to get the workday started, the most important aspect of a story is the title. The writer must keep in mind that without a good title nobody will consider purchasing the comparatively more expensive first edition hardcover, which is the most effectively gratuitous way of milking the masses for their money. Yanking coins from their unsuspecting udders, as it were. If the title is good enough, the paperback will never be issued. This will most likely lead to an excess of printing that, despite reducing the future value of the first edition as a collector’s item, will keep the book in bookstore display cases indefinitely if only to alleviate the problem of overstocking and, naturally, further prop up sales.

     To accomplish this, the writer must first consider the readership. Most readers these days prefer a title that begins with ‘The’ in big, bold letters. The writer must take special care not to tax anyone’s brain. In this case, take the first or last word of dialogue from whichever chapter seems most representative of the entire work, preferably the first chapter, put a resounding ‘The’ in front of it, and the writer, most wittingly, has created for himself (and his eager readership) a good working title. If the work in question is one of a more challenging variety intended for a readership that likes to be confused, a work which the author hopes to apply to something that affects the greater human condition, the writer must produce a title as distal from the subject matter as possible, thereby further confusing the readership.

     Depending on the writer’s desire for critical acclaim, in his title or in the body of the work the writer must consider addressing an atrocity or an important aspect of modern history, which are often one in the same. This usually takes the form of an episode pertaining to the first or second world wars, thereby increasing one’s chances for winning a literary award of some type, especially the Nobel or Booker prizes. As a testament to the off-chance that optimism will eventually prevail, happier works, when considered at all, will be short-listed.

     The worse the body of the work, the more important the title. A good title affords the luxury of never being pressed by the question of how exactly to go about writing the rest of the work. A good working title, smooth and seamless, generates without the slightest effort all that follows: i.e. plot, sub-plot, themes, sub-themes, symbolism, characters, secondary characters, tone, style, cadence, applicability to human plight. In short, the collective part of any publishable work that should, if all goes according to plan, receive the least attention. After all, the title is the first thing anybody will ever know about the work in question and perhaps the only thing they will remember afterwards.

     If, after trying all of the above or having no idea of where to go after all ideas are drained, restate the title. Prelude to a Handbook for Writers. Or restate it with one of the words bolded, italicized, underlined, or in capital letters. Prelude TO A HANDBOOK for writers. The meaning changes dramatically depending on the use of each strategy. One is encouraged to save the latter example for truly desperate times. If the legitimacy or professional integrity of the said writer’s text is brought into question, change the subject by referring immediately to the title. If the title itself is brought into question, refer to the text and tell the critic not to judge a book by its cover (although, in reality, that is exactly what the writer intends to do, so the joke’s on him!). Practical and self-explanatory, the title is thus the greatest tool a writer can have and, perhaps, the only one necessary for bad writers, which constitute a healthy majority of the writers out there today. And just looking at the numbers, the reader (and writer) of this fine essay is likely among them.

     For the sake of his readership, the writer must then address the issue of semantics. While some writers may refer to themselves modestly as those who have ‘only finished something’ or those merely ‘with something to say’, the true writer must always refer to himself as a writer and nothing less if committed to becoming one of the greats. The true writer does not have patience for word games and his popularity does not have the stainless luxury of untouchability. In contrast to the insistent way in which many writers may balk at revealing the content of their work before it is finished, if probed by a potential reader or publicist, the aspiring writer must always be prepared to talk extensively on the theme of his work to any and all willing to listen.

     When responding to such inquiries, the writer must also contribute appropriate gestures concomitant to talking about something so close to him: first, inhale and exhale deeply, look down, and then slowly bring one’s eyes to meet those of the inquirer; second, make a comment to the effect that you don’t normally like to talk about it but will make an exception in this case (this endears and softens the listener to what follows); third, pause, sigh, pause again, refer to the title if he already has one, and then recite a well-prepared one-liner such as “It’s about the imagined life of an airport bartender” or “You know the greasy cheese-like substance that collects on the floor under the oven? Well, in a way it’s about that”, after which the writer must fall deathly silent. Any further inquiries into the topic of the work should be met with such defensive reprisal so as to put the inquirer on the defensive and force him to clam up. Further inquiries, of course, threaten to over-expose the writer to situations in which—-because he is more able with the pen than with the spoken word—-he may not be able to defend his work. It may occur to one to circumvent this entire process by falling in line with conventional practices of other writers by preferring to dodge such inquiries altogether. But while the writer is in no way obligated to respond, he cannot afford to sell his popularity short before it has a chance to develop and therefore must remain attentive to the whims and fancies of his potential readership, the standards of which naturally determine the writer’s subject matter.

     There are several different types of readers that comprise the market and literature is undeniably a market-based pursuit. Comprising most of the market are readers that are not, shall we say, particularly discriminating in their taste for reading material. The term ‘reading material’ is, in fact, not so much intended to describe books per se, but more the physical materials that cease to retain the true soul of the purpose of reading literature, of the type one might take into the bathroom for company during more involved sessions, indeed something to take one’s mind off the necessities of the moment. These readers are the easiest targets for mass marketing campaigns of the kind one might find the author of which advertising himself on subway overheads as a ‘master’ of fiction or suspense (but if we know in advance that such an author is a ‘master’ of suspense and such, the reader will come to expect too much from the work before even reading it, inevitably leading to disappointment). While these readers are ideal for sparking favorable book sales, they also tend to be readers for whom the simplest references or difficulty of vocabulary will fall dead as an energetic bird hitting a brick wall in mid-flight. Many may simply skip over the difficult parts, should there be any—a difficulty stemming from their use of rarefied philosophical tenets not easily comprehended by the lay reader or simply the difficulty of getting through bland or outright bad writing. For these readers, the writer must use simple words. ‘Rarefied’ might be questionable. While the writer, his trade being that of words and their plethoric combinations, must be abreast of these, he can hardly expect the reader to be. Do not be afraid to dumb it down for the ‘hardcover only’ reader.

     In addition, one must not overlook the importance of developing extensive ‘Acknowledgments’ and ‘About the Author’ sections. The ‘Acknowledgments’ section should contain a reference to at least one well-known writer, philosopher, or international famous person such as Sally Struthers (as one bus stop billboard has indicated) and this person should be mentioned in the most congenial and familiar of contexts, such as that of a personal or family friend that goes way back, although in no way should the writer give undue credit to this person or divert the attention too far from himself. As for the ‘About the Author’ section, perhaps the most crucial to any successful work, this is where the writer may and is encouraged to paint himself as the savior of modern literature, a post-modernist hero emerged from the muck of the mundane, a leading intellectual among the elite of the literati.

     Regardless of the integrity of the work itself, when juxtaposed with the main body of the work (especially so if it is a work of fiction), these sections are viewed by the reader entirely as non-fiction, merely explanatory materials that the writer includes not for himself but for the benefit of readers and those to whom the writer owes debts of gratitude. They are absolute fact and will be all the more convincing because they are not within the scope of the main body of work. More importantly, they are left completely unaddressed in book reviews. If the writer encounters reluctance on the part of editors or publishers who question the propriety of such underhanded strategies, the writer is encouraged to pull out a one dollar bill from his pocket, if he has one to his name, show it emphatically to the pain in the ass that is causing the stir, slap it down on his or her desk with an angry expression, and walk out without saying a word. Leave them with their high morals. Equivalent to telling them where they can stick their ethics, this action in itself should be sufficient to prove the point. If it still falls short of doing so, continue slapping dollar bills onto the desk until agreement is reached. The struggling writer must consider this an investment in the future sales of the book.

     Sandwiched in between ‘Acknowledgments’ and ‘About the Author’ are the foreword and introduction; i.e. welfare (namedropping). As is the nature of publishing amidst the madness of mass modernity, there are too many people with too many things to say, too many writers trying to make or sustain their name, too many risen and fallen stars rounding out the bell curve at the back of the artist herd. The key is to select a few of these who have already peaked, the infirm with wobbly legs surfing the down-wave of their success, those with names that now exceed their abilities who would be more than willing to exchange a few well-versed phrases of praise for the writer’s work in exchange for publicity and employment. Appearances are not deceiving: one can’t spell ‘mutual back-scratching’ without an ‘I’. Spread the wealth; not everybody is fortunate to have a multi-book deal like the esteemed writer for which this helpful essay is intended. Pass on the rights to a foreword or introduction now and, karmically, when the writer has fully enjoyed his rise to fame and subsequent fall from popular grace, the wheel of good fortune will spin back around to its source. In short, hedge your investment. The time elapsed between the publication of one’s first novel and the publication of one’s first foreword or introduction can be one of the most telling sign of a writer’s success. Moreover, a foreword or introduction of some type also establishes an historical context for the work well before it has the right to one.

     Although a priority quite distant from the nucleus of importance, there are a number of other devices by which the writer may, in effect, augment the work as a whole without necessarily taking the pains one might normally deem necessary to augment the quality of the writing. For example, make ample use of popular, well-known phrases and clichés. Mention popular tourist destinations and expound upon them as if providing special, lesser-known insight. Keep chapters short to keep the reader attentive and to provide frequent rest-stops, keep margins narrow so that the reader has plenty of space to jot down important notes (plus, an old raggedy copy with notes written in the margins will encourage the reader to purchase an additional unsoiled copy ‘just to hold onto’), double-space to drag out the page numbers and forge the illusion of legitimacy (let’s face it: nobody wants to pay full price for a novella unless it is in hardcover), use a large font for elderly and hard-of-sight readers, bloviate loquaciously, use more punctuation than necessary to present the text and its modifiers as so difficult—-almost Mann-like—-as to actually require punctuation to get the point across, and no matter what use decorative designs and fonts for chapter titles, section titles, page numbers, and other textual accessories, preferably ones that make good use of curlicues and images of dragons, etc.

     Just because such textual accessories are necessary is no reason for them to lie unadorned. Smart designs give credibility to the publishing house—and therefore the author—where otherwise none may have existed. In this regard, the writer, while perhaps talented, must not overstep his bounds in relying too heavily on the quality of the text. There is no ‘sure thing’ in publishing and no one writer is guaranteed to be well-received no matter how good the text. Which, again, is where the title comes in. In emergencies where the writer—-despite his most heroic efforts—-cannot come up with the next line, just repeat the last one. Just repeat the last one.

     If the writer is not sure where the story is going or is perhaps a little frazzled from a lack of ideas, it is industry standard to fall back on a quote from a classic that most readers will not be familiar with; i.e. resurrecting the classics. If, in the rare event the reader is familiar with the quote, this will provide the well-versed reader with a hearty, under-the-table self-congratulatory backslap. This reader will, as a result of the writer’s text, feel good about himself. If, as in some cases, the reader only has a vague idea of the background and context of the quote or paraphrase in question, this will sidetrack the reader into a self-pummeling downward cycle into his ignorance of the source of this quote or, in the very least, will cause the reader mild anxiety that will somewhat distract the reader’s attention from the text at hand.

     If, as in most cases, the reader has not a clue, not the least bit of an inkling as to what the quote refers to—-and this is preferable from the writer’s perspective—-the goal of the quote has been achieved. The reader will feel unread, uneducated, utterly exasperated with him or herself for missing the reference entirely and may, if the quote is obscure enough, cause the reader to look upon the writer’s text as an authority on all things related, directly or literarily, to the quote and its various potential allusions and symbols. If in doubt as to what quote to use for this purpose, use Nietzsche. If still in doubt, make sure to stay away from such well-known works as ‘Thus Spake Zarathustra’ and ‘The Antichrist’. If the writer makes incorrect use of references from these works, he should not worry too much because that also is industry standard.

     Nietzsche is the best for such occasions because nobody really understands Nietzsche. If the writer is in some way capable of quoting Nietzsche in German or, better yet, using the German translation of a French translation of a German variation on early Latin used by Nietzsche on a Tuesday afternoon during a rainstorm as opposed to that used on a Thursday before cutting himself with a shaving razor, this would be an indelible prizewinner immediately qualifying the writer for a sweep of that year’s literary awards and, more importantly, any bylines on the cover of his book notifying the reader of these accomplishments. Again, it is all about the market and any use of a foreign language, no matter how obscure or inappropriate, only heightens the scholarship of the work.

     If the writer has exhausted his efforts and is still at a loss for a quote or what to write next, he might consider linking the work to a timeless parable for the purpose of bringing greater meaning to the said text. Perhaps something mythological—preferable Greek but possibly Roman, which is one in the same to most readers—something having to do with Prometheus, Sisyphus, Odysseus, or Narcissus—choose the specific reference based on the number of syllables or whichever sounds best. The more obscure the mythological reference, the more points the writer generally scores, although some readers prefer to be wooed and dazzled with references to secondary characters, thus showing an even more daunting understanding of the inner-workings of these famed mythological parables on the part of the writer. As mythology and folk tales tend to be written in archaic language not completely accessible to the average modern reader, such references are unlikely to be researched any further, thus covering up any potential misapplication on the part of the writer.

     Some writers try to be clever by purposefully referencing mythology through another more modern work that itself references mythology—-such as Ulysses—-thereby attempting to achieve a double word score, as it were, with half the effort. While some can pull this off, and quite successfully at that, the writer be warned that not only does this increase the potential surface area of misapplication but some of the critics and reviewers of this ‘more modern work’ may still be alive, thus creating the additional danger of being called to account either in subsequent reviews, thereby damaging the legitimacy of the writer’s work, or worse yet at a book signing or public reading, where any form of dissent against the word of the writer is most unwelcome and even embarrassing. And the writer should make all attempts not to forget, as Joyce most poignantly notes, that the writer is a writer because of his phrasemongering incapacity to think for sixty consecutive seconds.

     The writer is Camus’ Sisyphus. He is the standout intellectual worker bee that, having reveled in the smiles of earth’s beauty and questioned the gods, was plucked from life and cast against his will into the sorrowful underworld where his rock awaited. But despite this, we should see Sisyphus not as miserable but as the benefactor and beneficiary of the challenge. The writer is everyday faced with a challenge, the challenge to write enough words—-good words—-to keep his sanity intact, enough for his rearing subconscious to allow him to have sex ever again, to allow him to unsever the ties to friends, lovers, family, self. To do this through a process that will take months if not years to complete, will take him through swells of despair and currents of exultation in the span of a single sentence, will have him push one-half to one million buttons before finishing the first draft (this essay required the pushing of 25,000 buttons), is daunting enough not to have to worry about the quality of the writing itself. Thus the birth of the editor, whose job it is to take both the unstable writer under his wing and the mistakes out of his prose, to slap his face while whispering sweet nothings, to invite the writer to the table of reality while assuring him that what he has is salvageable.

     Despite this, at a certain point the Sisyphitic writer can lose perspective, lose confidence, lose the will to continue on into the darkness. The writer must be prepared for this; success does not come easily, if it comes at all. In the writer’s daily struggle to type enough words, quote enough classics, bring the margins in far enough, dupe the reader and editor into accepting a bogey as a birdie, to push the rock close enough to the top of the hill to see the other side: this is the art of writing.