I worked my ass off writing Uncomfortable. It was like my version of trying to show you what Betoven did when writing the 9th Symphony, was my work as good as his? Sure, why the fuck not? Why couldn’t my writing be as equal or better than his? Because he’s dead and I’m still here to defend my work, to prove that what I put into the universe deserves to exist.

That being said, although it doesn’t really matter if my work is as good or better than his, the point is that I worked hard to be able to release Uncomfortable.

I had to survive a lot of traumatic events in order to be the single person who wrote a book and called it “Uncomfortable,” while making it seriously difficult for the average person to read, or so I am told.

The book isn’t easy to read, not because it’s not edited, but because the topics the book discusses are heavy. Rape, torture, sexual abuse, trauma, healing, learning words, self-dictionaries, all these things were discussed in that book, openly, honestly, and without shame.

I didn’t have anyone telling me to push myself deeper because I slept a total of 27 hours during the writing of that book. It was the culmination of a five-day write-a-thon, in which I spoke to no one and did nothing but write for hours upon hours. It was fucking difficult.

It was a statement piece that described my manic insane thinking back in those days when I first started to recover my memories of abuse and trauma. They were more clear back then then they are now, but either way, this book Uncomfortable, saved my life.

It gave me something to focus on, and when it was over I curled up on my bed and cried because I was certain no one would want to read it.

Kim Rhodes read it. And wrote the blurb on the back for me. Kim is a friend of mine, and I don’t throw her name out there because I want to be all “oooh name-dropped,” I do it because she wrote the fucking blurb to the back of my God damned book. A friend I only dreamed of having done me a solid, because she could. And because of that, I felt stronger about the work I put into the world. That’s a powerful friend majick.

I also had Stephen Coghlan write in my book, which was another fucking honor beyond belief. To know that my friends support me enough to put their names on my work means the world to me, so for you to tell me that the work doesn’t count because a trade house didn’t want my work is fucking bullshit.

Maybe I didn’t spend tends of thousands of hours honoring the craft the way you did, because I was busy trying not to die while you were learning how to write and be a writer “properly.” Karen, I’m sorry darling, but I am not letting you sit there and tell all the little Devon’s out there that their work won’t count if they do it themselves.

You know all those movies you love so fucking much? Most of them start out in someone’s backyard thirty years ago, most of them were indi films before the big companies decided to jump on board, how do you think brands are made?

You’re not seriously arguing that my work has no merit, what you’re really saying is that my dreams don’t count. You’re saying if I don’t do things exactly the way you do then I am a punk, I’m an outsider.


This world has spent my whole life telling me it didn’t want me around and I’m still fucking here. I’m not going anywhere just because you don’t have the 20 bucks to let me help you change your life.

I’m taking some lessons from my friends online, I’m not asking anymore. I’m doing.

Sending all my love,

Devon J Hall

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