Welcome to my writing room, by now you know the drill: Don’t feed the animal, don’t make eye contact, and definitely don’t demand that it perform your favorite fucking tricks. Okay, before I continue on the fateful “Fuck Fat” Facebook Challenge of 2010 (Yes, Grant Henry, I am going to go there) (I haven’t forgotten about you, motherfucker), I want to stop for a second to address an absolutely real phenomenon called “It Woke Me Up in the Middle of the Night and I Couldn’t Stop Writing,” or something. Whatever it’s called, it’s real, and literary agents know it’s real. That’s why, whenever a literary agent is sifting through the queries in her inbox each morning, if she see’s it mentioned that [Read more…]
Welcome to my writing room. It’s ugly, interesting, authentic and devoted to a true story about real people and if you were part of it and recall things differently then I suggest you write your own fucking book. Me, I’m not your personal PR agent, I don’t take requests. So, anyway, remember the frog in the pot of water analogy that goes something like this; if you try to put a frog in a pot of boiling water it will jump right out, but if you place a frog in a pot of room-temperature water, then turn on the stove, and the water goes from room temperature to boiling, the frog will sit there and let itself be cooked. I like that analogy because I see it applied to instances throughout history, like the Nazi occupation of Warsaw, which was done in increments. Today total assholes look back and [Read more…]
Welcome to Hollis Gillespie’s writing room. This is my big murky aquarium, you’re welcome to peer inside, just don’t tap the tank, because the shark inside is too busy devouring something juicy to give a shit about swimming well with the other fish. Okay, I had to drive back from Orlando yesterday because that is the closest to home we could fly from Miami, which is not even where we meant to go in the first place. See? Flying standby is a goddam adventure and often it’s the journey and not the destination that makes the fun (so I keep telling myself). In short, sometimes you get stuck and you have to find a new way back even if it’s [Read more…]
Here’s an email rundown between me and Grant regarding a typical “missed connection” for coffee (this time not at his home but at a coffee house):
I’m here now. Where are you? [It’s 11 a.m. I’d been waiting 50 minutes]
You said 10.
I got here at 9:50.
I left at 10:30.
I’ve got a life.
ME: I said AROUND 10 . . . There must be some confusion. My receipt is stamped 10:09 and the guy who works here said he never saw you this morning . . . Sorry about the misunderstanding, Grant, I do respect you and your time. I do. I don’t create [Read more…]
Good morning! Welcome to the dirty zoo exhibit that is my book writing process, you can ogle if you want, but stay back from the cage and don’t feed or make eye contact with the animal inside. Okay, back to Grant Henry (that’s right, I haven’t forgotten about you, motherfucker!): Grant didn’t always used to be a hipster piece of shit. Hipsters didn’t co-opt Grant, he co-opted them. And the hipster movement itself didn’t used to be a piece of shit, either. It got co-opted by a bunch of big fucking bullies masquerading as big fucking pussies who now go around being “feaux”-fended by everything. So fuck them, fuck Grant, and fuck you if you’re a [Read more…]
Let’s get this straight: Writers don’t become writers to get rich. Writers become writers because we are cursed and can’t help it. We don’t grow up dreaming about riches and fame, most of us grow up wishing we had a more marketable talent. Because making a living as a writer is hard as fucking shit, and to accuse a writer of “just wanting to become rich and famous” is like accusing a murder victim of “just wanting to meet a nice forensic pathologist.” Because holy fuck there are a jillion easier paths, right? So it’s laughable to accuse a writer of just wanting to become rich – you can buy our books for a fucking penny on Amazon. A Fucking Penny. Newspaper writers, columnists, editors, we’re all having to compete with a bunch of masturbating bags of Millennial bacon fat pecking out “blogs” in their mother’s basement. This is why we hardly have news anymore, but just “lists” of shit. This is why places like Sister Louisa’s CHURCH is constantly making “Buzzfeed’s Top 10 Bars Inside Satan’s Anus” or some shit, not because some actual writer did research, but because some sweaty, unpaid ocean slug at a laptop in Ohio put together a list by just looking up other lists. [Read more…]
For those of you who need a reminder: Sister Louisa is not a person with feelings, it is a brand, a business, a yawn-inducing douche-den of a hipster bar, a product and a CHARACTER, but not a person. (Some could make the same argument about Grant Henry, but not me just yet.) (Not that I believe he’s human at all, hell no — he’s a crusty piece of bloody diabetic dog shit on a stick, I’m just not making that argument just yet.) Okay, back to Sister Louisa: She was created as a character the Fall of 1996 by me, Grant Henry and Daniel Troppy over one weekend at the Kintuck Folk Art Festival in Tuscaloosa. It was there the three of us made our pact — [Read more…]
Remember the time I was trying to raise money and awareness to fight Child Trafficking in Atlanta, and Sister Louisa never made a donation or came to one of my events? And to make up for it he promised to make me a float for the L5P parade? But the “float” turned out to be a rape van with “Child Traffic King” written across the side, while he and his friends marched along side dressed like child molesters, shouting through bullhorns “IS THERE NOTHING WE CAN DO” and tossing matchbooks at the kids with “Hell is HOT! Sister Louisa!” printed on the covers? Remember all the zero fucking awareness that rose to help anyone except Sister Louisa? Remember that? That was fun.
It’s all I’ve got left. It’s how I survived extinction. Bitchiness is the fuel of my craft. My first book was a best-seller and was titled “Bleachy-Haired Honky BITCH,” people, and I got there by writing BITCH(EN) shit, so what I’m writing now should not be a big surprise. This is my Facebook page. I’m working on my next book, my process is pretty transparent in the posts on this page. You are welcome to visit, just don’t expect me to clean up and redecorate for you.
Good morning! Welcome to Hollis Gillespie’s war zone! (thanks, Gordon Dyker) A lot of you have expressed sympathy toward me over the fact that Grant Henry and I now hate each other, so I say to you: Stop with that shit. Do not feel sorry for me. Grant’s been Michael Vick-ing my inner pitbull for eight years, ever since I left Creative Loafing and began writing for an editor who wouldn’t drink Grant’s crappy poison Koolaid (or as I like to call it, “Sister Louisa’s Sangria!”). I should have hated Grant when he started hating me, but I tend not to hate friends for no reason, not to mention we had this commitment thing where we promised to [Read more…]