I get the sense that this current strain of retarded tumblrite backwash about what is and isn't acceptable started to gain currency among the most vapid, mouth-breathing "creatives" and literary agents/editors sometime around 2012 or thereabouts. Fast forward 12 years and the viral load is at a lethal saturation. Whiny faggots who constantly make up shit to be offended by have always existed, but I feel like the more recent trend of pandering to them in the past decade cropped back up at around that time. If you go back and read things from the 90s or 00s no one gave a shit and even authors you'd think would be the trendy overeducated hipster faggots of their day weren't shy about using the Nigger Word or any other pejorative that suited whatever they were going for at the moment.
Yeah, I had this thought last night as well coincidentally. I'd place it right around 2010 or so. The problem with writing is that it's always been deeply nepotistic. It's all about clubhouses and paying lip service to whatever is the agenda. But with the explosion of social media and leftism and even more gate keeped places like Reddit, I don't blame guys like you for just shitposting. It's not like any of us can get published not unless you say you're LGBTQ+ and maybe write gay pedophile serial killer fiction? The whole scene is AIDS on a metaphorical and literal level.
I was re-reading Artaud Anthology as of late and this one piece is a favorite of mine:
All Writing is Pigshit… by Antonin Artaud
All writing is pigshit.
People who leave the obscure and try to define whatever it is that goes on in their heads, are pigs.
The whole literary scene is a pigpen, especially this one.
All those who have vantage points in their spirit, I mean, on some side or other of their heads and in a few strictly localized brain areas; all those who are masters of their language; all those for whom words have a meaning; all those for whom there exist sublimities in the soul and currents of thought; all those who are the spirit of the times, and have named these currents of thought - and I am thinking of their precise works, of that automatic grinding that delivers their spirit to the winds –
are pigs.
Those for whom certain words have a meaning, and certain manners of being; those who are so fussy; those for whom emotions are classifiable, and who quibble over some degree or other of their hilarious classifications; those who still believe in ' terms '; those who brandish whatever ideologies belong to the hierarchy of the times ; those about whom women talk so well, and also those women who talk so well, who talk of the contemporary currents of thought; those who still believe in some orientation of the spirit; those who follow paths, who drop names, who fill books with screaming
headlines are the worst kind of pigs.
And you are quite aimless, young man!
No, I am thinking of bearded critics.
And I told you so : no works of art, no language, no word, no thought, nothing.
Nothing; unless maybe a fine Brain-Storm. A sort of incomprehensible and totally erect stance in the midst of everything in the mind.
And don't expect me to tell you what all this is called, and how many parts it can be divided into; don't expect me to tell you its weight; or to get back in step and start discussing all this so that by discussing I may get lost myself and even, without even realizing it, start THINKING. And don't expect this thing to be illuminated and live and deck itself out in a multitude of words, all neatly polished as to meaning, very diverse, and capable of throwing light on all the attitudes and all the nuances of a very sensitive and penetrating mind.
Ah, these states which have no name, these sublime situations of the soul, ah these intervals of wit, these minuscule failures which are the daily bread of my hours, these people swarming with data . . . they are always the same old words I'm using, and really I don't seem to make much headway in my thoughts, but I am really making more headway than you, you beard-asses, you pertinent pigs, you masters of fake verbiage, confectioners of portraits, pamphleteers, ground-floor lace-curtain herb collectors, entomologists, plague of my tongue.
I told you so, I no longer have the gift of tongue. .But this is no reason you should persist and stubbornly insist on opening your mouths.
Look, I will be understood ten years from now by the people who then will do what you are doing now. Then my geysers will be recognized, my glaciers will be seen, the secret of diluting my poisons will have been learnt, the plays of my soul will be deciphered.
Then all my hair, all my mental veins will have been drained in quicklime; then my bestiary will have been noticed, and my mystique become a hat. Then the joints of stones will be seen smoking, arborescent bouquets of mind's eyes will crystallize in glossaries, stone aeroliths will fall, lines will be seen and the geometry of the void understood : people will learn what the configuration of the mind is, and they will understand how I lost my mind.
They will then understand why my mind is not all here; then they will see all languages go dry, all minds parched, all tongues shrivelled up, the human face flattened out, deflated as if sucked up by shriveling leeches. And this lubricating membrane will go on floating in the air, this caustic lubricating membrane, this double membrane of multiple degrees and a million little fissures, this melancholic and vitreous membrane, but so sensitive and also pertinent, so capable of multiplying, splitting apart, turning inside out with its glistening little cracks, its dimensions, its narcotic highs, its penetrating and toxic injections, and all this then will be found to be all right, and I will have no further need to speak.