Welcome to the official website of freelance writer Mark Hill, created because I’m not popular enough to have an unofficial fan page. You can find links to my work and my contact information above, or read my personal work below. Enjoy!
“I enable social media Jedi synergy.”
“Uber driver thinks he’ll make it.”
“Dad’s YouTube stand-up got 12 views.”
“My teenage son is retweeting Neo-Nazis.”
“12-year-old Instagrammers are richer than me.”
“For sale: podcast equipment, never used.”
Socratic Dialogue Seahorse
Just Pictures Of Hugh Jackman With No Text Added Because We Shouldn’t Put Words In Hugh Jackman’s Mouth
A Picture Of A House That Offers Sound Real Estate Investment Advice That I Never Thought Of A Clever Name For
Respectful of Life Choices Larry
The “Most Political Issues Are Actually Incredibly Complex So Let’s Not Distill Them Into A Couple Snarky Sentences And In Doing So Destroy The Nuance That Surrounds Them” Baby
Willy Wonka Says Something In Earnest Seriousness But It Accidentally Comes Across As Sarcastic And He Feels Bad About It
A Dog That Can’t Say Anything Because It’s Just A Dog
I’m starting a podcast about either comedy, pop culture, the most divisive social issues of our time, or how to make cooking fun. I haven’t decided yet, but since I have a lot of insight into all those topics I might not even have to. And since you “Liked” Bernie Sanders on Facebook, make a mean quesadilla and told me that Spy was “pretty funny, I guess,” I thought you’d be a great debut guest if Melissa McCarthy, Nate Silver and one of the line cooks at my local Olive Garden all don’t get back to me in time. Don’t take being the benchwarmer personally, that cook just had some really great insights on making spaghetti sauce and how to solve racism in America.
Speaking of liking things on Facebook, can you like my podcast on Facebook? It’s called What’s Cooking in America, because that could be literal or figurative depending on the subject matter we go with. If I decide on comedy I’ll change it to What’s Cooking in America?! to keep the brand recognition but demonstrate that we’re not afraid to get wacky. You’ll note that our logo reflects our unique blend of seriousness and levity by portraying caricatures of me and Steve in suits but also cartoon chef hats. It took 22 dollars and three Craigslist postings to find an artist who could draw us with the quality I demand as a creator, but I think you’ll agree that it was worth it.
Oh, Steve? He’s my roommate, and he’s hilarious. But, like, smart too, you know? His jokes really make you think. And he does the perfect Donald Trump impression. Just wait until you hear him talk about why affirmative action is dumb, but like all sarcastically, or the perfect way to get al dente noodles but in Trump’s voice. And while I wish I could take full credit for the aurally stimulating train that’s getting ready to embark from iTunes, Soundcloud and whatscookinginamerica_podcast.weebly.com, a lot of the praise should go to him. He’s the one who suggested that we try to emulate Comedy Bang Bang, Serial or the FiveThirtyEight podcast, all of which I’ve heard are amazing.
Speaking of amazing, our first run of t-shirts arrived yesterday and I’ll tell you what they’re not: they’re not not amazing. They have our name and logo on the front, and then on the back it says “Listen Up!” And we’re finalising the design of our coffee mugs, which say “Drink Up!” That was Steve’s idea. See? He’s hilarious.
Those mugs should arrive in the mail any day now, along with my new microphone and my copy of Expert Podcasting Practices For Dummies. It was a few bucks more than Podcasting For Dummies, but I’m not screwing around here. What’s Cooking In America already has 11 Likes and six Twitter followers, and because those 17 people are friends and family members I know they expect quality. And Steve and I are going to give them that quality as soon as we decide on what editing software we want to use, the episode naming structure we’re going with, what kind of advertisers we want to bring on-board and how often we want to publish an episode. We’re thinking weekly, but with the odd mid-week bonus episode when something especially insightful comes to mind. I’m sure you know how great ideas can just strike sometimes.
Anyway, let me know your schedule. I’m available whenever, but the Friday nights I’m not drunk and the Saturday afternoons I’m not high work best. Just text me and you’ll know. We’ll have to work around Steve’s work schedule too, I never know it in advance because it’s all shift work and he’s pretty bad at updating our production calendar, but I guess that’s creative types for you. We’ll figure something out. Just come prepared with a few thoughts on Louis C.K., the Marvel Cinematic Universe, whether there’s such a thing as a reasonable restriction on free speech and appetizers, and we can pretty much just wing it from there. Sound good? Oh, ha, wing it. Get it, like chicken wings? See, this is going to be easy.
Oh, and while I have you, I’d also like to discuss bringing you onboard my new YouTube series. It’s just this fun little side-project I’m doing without Steve because, as much as I love the guy, I still need to maintain my creative independence. I’m either going to play popular video games while adding my insightful and hilarious commentary, or I’m going to react to other people playing popular video games. I don’t want to spoil anything, but I’ve got some pretty sick Minecraft jokes lined up.
I know your type, asshole. You think yoghurt’s for menopausal women who wear nothing but sweaters, college girls who wear nothing but yoga pants, and guys who wear nothing but other guy’s cocks in their mouths. Well guess the fuck what? This yoghurt would literally murder all of those people, bench press their bodies a few times just to prove that they could do it, and then feed their bodies to pigs if they so much as looked at this yoghurt the wrong way. So help them, God, this yoghurt’s fucking crazy!
You know those commercials where the menopausal women gather in completely white houses to talk about how their yoghurt’s helping them shit better? The people who eat this yoghurt gather in abandoned warehouses to compete over who gets the biggest erection from beating homeless people to death. This yoghurt makes you shit better and then it makes other people shit better, because when they look at you they will shit themselves.
This yoghurt comes in an all-black container, but we call it “midnight” because that’s when the yoghurt coven convenes. The container’s made of old artillery shells and the lid doubles as a throwing star. You can’t open it without cutting yourself, and that’s by design. The blood adds flavour. The pain adds commitment. The scar adds flesh memory. When you see someone with the same scar as you, you’ll give each other nods so manly nearby wildlife will die. And then you will initiate battle, because there can be only one.
You want some peach yogurt? How about key lime? Well, fuck you straight back to your mother’s squandered womb. Our flavors are Gunpowder, Patriarchy, Tool Belt and Abortion. If you don’t already know what those taste like, we don’t want your commie bread line money.
Our yoghurt’s more nutritious than ripping an elk’s beating heart out of its chest and devouring it in full view of the eyes of a creature that’s suddenly gained sentience but can’t do anything with its newfound knowledge except regret it. It gives you vitamins, minerals, protein, probiotics and the power of lesser men. If you eat our yoghurt in front of a doctor he’ll quit his job safe in the knowledge that his services are no longer required. If you feed our yoghurt to a corpse it will come back to an unholy non-life, the only purpose of which is to do your bidding. Nine out of 10 nutritionists recommend our yoghurt, and they also say it goes great with the unworthy body of the tenth.
We’d tell you the name of our yoghurt, but we can’t communicate an hour of Mongolian throat singing through text. We’d tell you how much it costs, but only it chooses the payment it will take from you. We’d tell you where to buy it, but first we need to tell you where to buy the spelunking equipment and arcane weaponry. We’d tell you it’s going to change your life, but it already has.
If you’re pregnant, a minor, have a heart condition or are a pussy then you won’t even be able to lift the Lead Spoon of the Night Razors. If you’re capable, then you already know. Every muscle in your body is straining to tell you. Every neuron in your brain is listening to our yoghurt demand your presence. You will consume it and inspire poets to kill themselves because not even a lifetime of work would allow them to capture your magnificence. You will gaze upon people who eat other brands of yoghurt the way a lion gazes upon a gazelle. You will taste infinity and skull fuck the stars. This is manly yoghurt, motherfuckers, and it will bring ruin to the very concept of civilisation if it does not get its goddamn way.
Aspiring writers looking for tips online often come across contradictory and confusing advice. I hope to cut through this morass of information by offering simple, common sense ideas that no one will ever contradict, declare useless or consider pretentious. I hope these help, and remember—always keep writing!
Write precisely 1,287 words every day between 7:23 am and 9:41 am.
Never use adverbs. Use adjectives sparingly. Nouns should only appear once every 4.8 sentences. Semi-colons are mythical.
A character should only say, ask or expunge dialogue.
No character should be named Steven. If you’re writing a work of non-fiction about a real person named Steven, change their name to Bartholomew.
Keep your computer on but your monitor off.
It’s key to have a keyboard. It’s only nice to have mice.
Eat spiders to gain their cunning.
Don’t do anything Jonathan Franzen says, even if he’s telling you to take cover. That little fuck isn’t the boss of you.
If you’re having trouble finding motivation, get cancer.
Always listen to whale sounds, unless you’re writing about whales. Then listen to jazz.
Maybe write a mystery? Those seem to be selling alright lately.
Remember to tell yourself that writing is a window into your soul as you spend 15 minutes deciding whether or not to italicise a word that will inevitably be cut later.
Never eat tapioca.
I stayed up all night wondering where the sun went. I also wondered what happened to the man who would stay up all night just because he could, because he wasn’t weighed down by responsibilities and obligations and because dammit, he was alive. Then it dawned on me. I’m growing old, and there’s no getting around that fact. But maybe I’ll chase the dawn tonight, put aside my duties just for a little while and remind myself that, even if you strip away my career and family, I’m still a man. Will this reminder give me the vigor I need to accept the early nights to come, or will it make me loathe them even more? There’s only one way to find out. Guess I better make some coffee.
What’s the difference between a piano and a tuna? Not much to me. I certainly can’t play the piano or catch a fish anymore either, not with these arthritic hands. When I was your age I could spend a weekend in the wilderness and come back with enough food to feed the family for a week. Now there are days where I struggle to make toast. Will you come make meals for me, when it gets worse? Or will you abandon me to the ravages of time, unable to confront your inevitable fate and the fate of a father you once thought stronger than 10 men? As you ponder that, just remember that no matter how old you get, you can tune a piano… but you can’t tuna fish.
Do you file your nails? Really? I just throw mine away, into the trash with everything else I’ve thrown away in life. My ambition, my health, my passion for the little things. Not all at once, mind you. An old friend’s phone number because I’m convinced he wouldn’t want to get in touch after all this time here, a novel outline I’ve stared at for years before convincing myself that it will never be as good as I see it in my head there. The fingernail clippings of life, piling up one by one. Unnoticeable at first, little white flecks against the white plastic bag I use to line the trash can. But they pile up, one by one, until there comes a day when they’re overflowing. Nail clippings can be vacuumed up, and the bag taken out to the garbage. But there’s no vacuum for regrets, and no garbage either. Not unless you count the grave.
I got a haircut. I got a shave too, and as the razor passed my throat I thought about lunging forward and sparing myself the parade of indignities that comes with old age. Better to go out a man than a senile old coot yammering misremembered stories to a pitying audience like my father. But by the time the thought came to me the blade was already gone, and maybe that’s for the best. Now’s not the time. I still have too much to accomplish. There’s still too much… I got all my other hairs cut, too. Getting one cut would just be silly.
I told my wife she drew her eyebrows too high. She cried, and through her tears she said “The first thing you’ve said about my appearance in months, and it’s an insult?” I sat down next to her on the faded couch we bought when we first moved into this house all those years ago and hovered my hand over her shoulder, uncertain if she would pull away if I tried to draw her in. I wondered if I should tell her that I still find her beautiful, and that I wish I could tell her that every day, but that ever since I discovered the affair the words turn to ash in my throat. I want to kiss you, Maryanne, but how can I when every time your lips draw near I imagine Albert’s rough mouth on them? How can I, when those same lips moved to tell me that you haven’t spoken to your old friend Albert in over a year when I asked how he’s doing? I know it’s as much my fault as yours. The long nights, the emotional distance, the little things around the house… but dammit, Maryanne, if you had only said something I would have changed. That’s what really hurts, that you didn’t even ask. If I had tried and failed, I could live with your infidelity. But to not even be given the chance to try… The words pour out of me before I can stop myself, more intimacy between us in this moment than there’s been in God knows how long. She looked surprised. And I surprised myself.
People Take One Look At Him And Assume He’s From Planetary Settlement Alpha Romeo 27-X-9. But He’s Actually From Lunar Settlement Hotel Zulu 19-Q-4.
17 Heart-Warming Cybernetic Body Implants That Will Restore Your Faith In Transhumanity.
His Brain Is Made Of Plastic. But His Heart Is Made Of Gold.
33 Stuffed Animals Simulating Positions Historians Say “Pet Owners” Of The 21st Century Found Adorable.
These People Dismissed Beth As A “Mere” Artificial Intelligence. Then They Heard Her Play The Violin, While Also Playing The Piano And Theremin And Writing A Mystery Novel And Analysing The Galactic Economy And Scanning Observers For Any Medical Abnormalities Or Criminal Backgrounds That Should Be Reported To The Overseers.
He Was Built To Terminate Life. What He’s Terminating Is Prejudice.
18 Spaceships We Can’t Believe They Terraformed And Colonised Venus With.
Ranking The 2 Female Presidents Of The United States.
Thoughts My Teenage Self Assumed I Would Be Having
Should I save time by having the help polish my Booker Prize, or would doing it myself allow me precious moments to reflect on both my past and my future?
When I emerge from my mysterious period of reclusiveness, which publication should I give an exclusive interview to?
Do I want to die tragically young at the height of great success, or become an elderly and respected national treasure?
How impressive is my video game collection?
Would it be more dramatic if I cheated on my supermodel wife in a scandalous public affair or kept it private to reveal in a memoir decades later?
Thoughts I Am Actually Having
At what point does it become sad that I only know like six recipes?
Is my nose hair getting longer, or am I just growing more of it?
Why, as a professional writer, does it still take me three tries to spell “necessary”?
Oh God, how impressive is my video game collection?
When I die alone will my cats eat me, or will animal protection services already have taken them away?
“Actually that’s my secret — I can’t even talk about you to anybody because I don’t want any more people to know that our first date was at a club and you threw up on my shirt, and then when I took it off you started masturbating.”
Cloaked by the erotic darkness she exhausted the future quickly, with all the eventualities that might lead up to a kiss, but the bitch didn’t blow him even after he paid for drinks and pumped his sick guns.
Her love had reached a point where now at last she was beginning to be unhappy, to be desperate. So he dumped her and swiped a few girl who are way hotter anyway, and I mean just look at this one, bro, you know a chick who poses like that will let you do anal.
Dick tried to plunge over the Alpine crevasse between the sexes. Heh.
He used to think that he wanted to be good, he wanted to be kind, he wanted to be brave and wise, but it was all pretty difficult. He wanted to score some tight pussy, too, if he could fit it in between hitting the gym with his bros.
There is something awe-inspiring in one who has lost all inhibitions, who will do anything. If you know what I mean.
They talked aimlessly back and forth, each speaking for the other. That’s what happens after you do a shitton of Jagerbombs in a row.
“Think how you love me,” she whispered. “I don’t ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside me there’ll always be the person I am to-night.”
“Yeah, and somewhere inside you to-night there’ll be my dick. Whoo!”
“Someday I’m going to find somebody and love him and love him and never let him go.”
“Yeesh,” thought Dick. “I’m not swiping that stalker. Dick Diver never sticks it in crazy, that’s what my father taught me.”
He desired her and, so far as her virginal emotions went, she contemplated a surrender with equanimity. Yet she knew she would forget him half an hour after she left him – like an actor kissed in a picture. She had been texting another boy who was way cuter and claimed to own a yacht, which was pretty cool, even if ‘owned’ probably meant it belonged to his wealthy uncle and he could borrow it once every few months.
He was in love with every pretty woman he saw now, their forms at a distance, their shadows on the walls. But none of them swiped him, so he had to content himself with nights spent on PornHub.
She was about twenty-four – her face could have been described in terms of conventional prettiness, but the effect was that it had been made first on the heroic scale with strong structure and marking, as if the features and vividness of brow and coloring, everything we associate with temperament and character had been molded with a Rodinesque intention, and uggggh, just tap her ugly ass and move on already, man.
Like so many men he had found that he had only one or two moves – that his little collection of compliments and dance moves contained the germ of all he would ever think or know about dating.
Her hair, drawn back off her ears, brushed her shoulders in such a way that the face seemed to have just emerged from it, as if this were the exact moment when she was coming from a wood into clear moonlight. The unknown yielded her up; Dick wished she had no background, that she was just a girl lost with no address save the night from which she had come. Because that’s where he was going to send her back to once he got some.
“You once liked me, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Liked you – I loved you. Everybody loved you. You could’ve had anybody you wanted for the asking. But now you’ve stopped exercising and you got that weird shoulder tattoo, so it’s like eh, I think I could do better.”
The voice fell low, sank into her breast and stretched the tight bodice over her heart as she came up close. He felt the young lips, her body sighing in relief against the arm growing stronger to hold her. There were now no more plans than if Dick had arbitrarily made some indissoluble mixture, with atoms joined and inseparable; you could throw it all out but never again could they fit back into atomic scale. As he held her and tasted her, and as she curved in further and further toward him, with her own lips, new to herself, drowned and engulfed in love, yet solaced and triumphant, he was thankful to have an existence at all, if only as a reflection in her wet eyes. He texted her a couple days later, but she had met some guy named Chet.
“You’re the only girl I’ve seen for a long time that actually did look like something blooming.”
“lol r u gay?”
The call is coming from inside the house! It’s your mother, and she’s disappointed in your life decisions.
After a long and tortuous battle, the villain is vanquished. You go to bed, thinking you’re safe at last. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, regrets about your last relationship hit you.
The perpetrator was the twin you never knew you had. They’re happily married, own a nice house and keep asking when you’ll settle down.
The hillbilly family that you thought were harmless eccentrics turned out to be cannibals. Also, despite how much you mock and shun their simple lifestyle, they are clearly much happier than you.
The imaginary monster you feared as a child becomes real and hunts you down as an adult. It’s massively underwhelming compared to your current fears.
The dead rise from the grave to inform you that you’re squandering the wealth and resources they left you.
After an unspecified apocalypse reduces humanity to scattered groups of desperate survivors clinging together both for survival and to fulfill the simple emotional need of human contact, you discover that people still don’t want to hang out with you.