Learning Day: D.I.Y. Magic (Patreon)

We’ve met plenty of specialist frauds. One-trick posers. Liars with focused depth. But what about breadth? Imagine the Necronomicon for doing fucking nothing, in the name of art. The full power of an Atlantis writing workshop in your hands.

I wished that cover into being. One of many art powers promised by DIY Magic, a tome of arcane procrastination drills. The back teases several alternatives to typing, and finds time for a little name-dropping:

Ah. It’s a guide to not writing. With magick.

I was a bit reductive. It’s a guide to not writing, drawing, composing, dancing, puppeteering, throat-singing, word-chewing, or automating plagiarism. With magick. An incense-powered time blender. A creative journal for enemies of thought.

Tough sell–not writing’s easy. You’re probably doing it now. Offers to tap into your mind tend to just tap into your bank account. And whether or not you believe in Narnia, you can cast spells without stressing over word count. Bandai execs have reports to fluff and dreams to pillage, so a D&D update should limp out soon.

Things don’t look good for Anthony. It’ll take an elite opening to get me on board.

I love it. Not enough to tap my savings. But I have an uncorrected proof and a canceled flight, and this is mystic confidence. Let’s rock.

At a glance, Anthony’s Google results are crushed by a Bronx educator and embezzler with the same name. Followed by a motivational speaker. More importantly, this is our Anthony’s first and only book. Starting your writing career with a writing guide seems bold, like disarming a grenade with your teeth. The kind of move that buries you behind two superior grifters. But Anthony’s not fucking around, so neither are we. What do we need to learn crowbending?

288 pages? Anthony knew I’d spend twenty fucking hours in an airport. During a two hour delay, I’d dump “the book in your hands” in a Terminal B trashcan. But birds told Anthony the future: a radically original arsenal could prevent an airport Chili’s crashout.

I’ll pay that toll. How’d they procrastinate in Salem?

Odd start. That’s not magic. Or a creativity hack. That’s already having an idea and not needing a haunted listicle. Pretty close to fucking around.

Give Anthony time. Cynics might call this fucking around, but he’s the magus in the arena. I’ve slain enough cel-shaded dictators with music to respect “finding your groove” as advice. As the gyre widens, we may all need to find our groove.

Now we’re playing. Let’s steal some plots from ourselves, Looper style. We won’t need them in the wasteland.

Hope is poison.

Oh, fuck off.

I skipped Intuition’s Einstein quote, because I hoped it wasn’t a pattern. Nope. All D.I.Y. Magic spells open with borrowed wisdom. If someone’s misquoted on Zombie Facebook, they’re in D.I.Y. Magic. Anthony bragged about writing 288 pages, but every readable line’s a loan. Not too creative.

The spell might make up for it. What are we doing instead of writing today?

Absolutely not. But I appreciate this round’s effort. It’s a genuine surprise. I came for shit that doesn’t exist, and got shit that doesn’t matter. Anthony’s grift is light on true delusion and heavy on busywork. Churning butter for an afternoon won’t finish your draft. It won’t even finish the butter. You’ll be stuck with splinters and unpasteurized poison.

The sample tools show how Anthony thinks: rarely. His stabs at comedy are accidental tomb curses. A typewriter, umbrella, and spaghetti sound like direct quotes from a Reddit IPO whale. Try that joke on four dates, and three will break cyanide teeth.

Granted, relationships with technology vary. I enjoy machines that help me record and execute ideas. Anthony suggests pressing your own paint from leaves. If you choose a tough year, this ritual’s known as “camping.” You can do it without ditching insulin and wet wipes. Next.

Normal walks, English class filler, and writing the book for Anthony. Magic is dead, but the last two might spawn an idea. Maybe. Six is Anthony’s best and only thought so far, so let’s try it out. Here’s mine:

Well, that’s the latest. Anthony inspired a few steps. Here’s my usual fare:

I’ll cave. Could we please have some magic nonsense? I thought we’d ask Zeus for story notes by now. Anthony’s delivered a Waco art class, but it’s at the community college. And I’ve never met a dull witch. Or a grifter witch. Or a witch without ideas. Or a witch who didn’t listen, when no one else would. I miss her.

Is there any magic in this life, Anthony?

I don’t know where we’re going.

This section melts in real time. Graduating to sophomore year quotes? Awesome. Acknowledging local vagrants as human? Great. Mining them for improv material? Less great. Expecting Gandalf’s wisdom from the guy talking to street lamps? You’re the madman.

Anthony’s romanticizing Clozapine, but he means well. And writes a nice personal story for his dumbest readers to imitate:

“Breakups are tough. When I was your age, HAARP used devil lightning to steal my genitals. But you’re young. Just communicate more next time. And try writing some self-help, Penguin might be into it.”

The story’s fine in isolation: Anthony allegedly did social work before selling out. But consider the aspiring wizards/jugglers buying this. D.I.Y. Magic sends open mic washouts to grill unhoused schizophrenics for writing prompts. That might not work out. Even if they return unbruised, they’ve written zero words and learned less magic.

Alright, today magic’s a shit metaphor for thinking differently. And thinking differently is a shit metaphor for not thinking. And while we’re not thinking, we’re not writing. What Warcraft lingo are we ruining next?

Kidding, Anthony goes basic with a Shakespeare quote. Followed by a double warning:

Intense! We might snort enough inspiration to write an entire sentence. My body doesn’t have a limit, but that’s a different problem. I’m just excited to see something replace another hundred pages of void. Anthony’s back like Tammany Hall, with a list of grad school party favors.

Here’s the list:

I fell off a moving party train, and this list is still weak. For creative PEDs, I suggest stark reality or month-long benders. Nothing else moves the needle, except Juicy J’s other vice.

If you can read nootropics without groaning, you live a better life. I’m reminded of endless gym soliloquies cribbed from podcast doctors. They did not sound “neurologically optimized.” As for why whiskey gets a pass in Weenie Hut Jr., imagine a Damien Echols cosplayer swirling one glass for three hours while Not Writing.

Can we do better than naps? Or write something? At least students can blame hangovers.

Been there, done that. My testosterone is fine, and so is yours. I’d give Anthony points for drifting to the supernatural, but I fear he doesn’t know it. He believes in voodoo, he’s just fuzzy on the details.

Time for crow magic. It’s my last scrap of hope, and I have Prison School jokes for three of you.

Hey, Walt Whitman! He writes. And we’ve even learned the GRE word for bird materia. I’ll skip the anime nonsense so we can focus on learning.

Got it, we’re still not writing. Prison School’s an anime sex comedy, but I promise it’s not weird. The main cast are failed sex pests arrested by a secret matriarchy, but it’s really not weird. Half the jokes are bloody dominatrix-themed battery, and one dominatrix has crow powers, but I promise it’s…weird. Extremely weird. Intentionally. Prison School has the beautiful madness you retain by skipping creativity guides. I, on the other hand, am turning into a fucking vegetable.

Birdwatch, presumably after a Schedule 1 nap. You won’t get any writing done, but you’ll offend the demiurge. Fine. That’s all I really want from letters. Anthony doesn’t have to help us write, party, or bend reality. Heresy can keep us warm.

Mental golems? Like Tulpas? Please be Tulpas. I won’t make the same four Jojo cracks. I’ve grown as a magician and humorist. Give me a chance, Lord Satan. Make this Tulpas.

Through the desert, we’ve found a crank oasis. If you’ve been here long enough for me to make sense, you know the score. Psychic sex dolls are a grim timehole I wouldn’t confess to at nukepoint. The uncontested bottom of human sexuality, spirituality, and search history.

And a creative exercise, through magic. Mine’s called Oren-Ishii the Second. The name’s a bit misleading: it looks like modern Uma Thurman. I’m twenty hours past shame, and Oren says to live my truth.

Darkling, what other spells? You stroked off for 288 pages before letting the reader join in. Magick and creativity are publishing’s easiest scams, and you missed twice. Get it together, Anthony. You’re scaring the tulpas.

D.I.Y. Magic isn’t great for creativity or spellcraft. But it’s ideal for not choking an airline rep with duty-free plastic. They don’t deserve that. They’re underpaid human sacrifices, a role closer to black magic than anything covered today. Including blasphemous birdwatching.

Though crows make decent coauthors. Even if their solo work is a little obscure.

Sorry, I’m losing my fucking mind. Here’s a normal style parody.

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