#wordfail

Fuck.

     I kept trying to tell myself I was just busy. New gig, single dad, awesome girlfriend, and just a whole shit-ton of life going on. That's what I was saying. But I'm told the first step in defeating a problem is admitting you have one. And the problem I'm having is that I can't find my fucking words.

     It's not like I don't have anything to write about. I think of seven different things to write about every goddamn day, and that's just when my brain is in Neutral. I've written most of these things down as Subjects To Write Shit About. And then they just sit there, staring at me like those creepy pictures in Disney's Haunted Mansion - the ones that seem to follow you whichever way you walk, except that in this case there's no fun ride to look forward to. (Note: I was about to compare my Subjects To Write Shit About to stillborn children, as opposed to the creepy pictures in the Haunted Mansion, but then I was all like, Dude, that's fucking dark, even for you. Plus, now I just told you what I was originally going to write, which sort of defeats the whole purpose of editing myself and going a different direction, and now for all I know some of you are having images of  creepy pictures of stillborn children at Disney's Haunted Mansion, that follow you everywhere you turn, and that is just ten kinds of fucked up, but I won't apologize for it because that's what's in my head right now, and the whole point of this blog was to get the shit in my head out in the open, and also I'm not going to apologize for what has basically become a gigantic parenthetical run-on sentence, because Cormac McCarthy does that shit all the time, and people think he's brilliant.)

     What was I talking bout?

     Oh, yeah. Writer's block.

     So, I'm googling some of my favorite writers, to see what kind of advice they can give me about this. (Most of my favorite writers are dead, by the way. I'm not sure why I felt compelled to share that bit of information with you, but there you go.) Here's what one of my heroes, Ernest Fucking Hemingway, had to say about overcoming writer's block:

"All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know."

     The truest sentence I know? That's kind of overwhelming. I mean, like, was he asking for a universal truth (The earth rotates around the sun.), or was he suggesting a more personal truth (I discovered masturbation at age 12, and have rarely missed a day since 1979.)? 

     Next up is James Thurber:

"Don't get it right; just get it written."

     Now that's a practical piece of advice, and one that I suppose I'm putting into practice right now. I think my biggest, nastiest issue as a writer has always been fear: fear that what I'm writing is pure shit; fear that I'll be exposed as a charlatan and a hack, with nothing new or original to say, and no distinctive way to say it. Often I am reminded that I need to tell the little nay-sayer who lives inside my head to go take a flying fuck. Because I'm a writer. It can be made right later, but not if it's never written in the first place. 

   And what does Mr. William Faulkner have to say on the subject?

"I only write when I am inspired. Fortunately, I am inspired at 9 o'clock every morning."

     Fuck you, Faulkner. Show off.

     And with that, I suppose I have - for the time being - slain the dragon that periodically swoops in to steal my words. I wish I could tell you that I'll be much more active on this space now - but if you've read me for any length of time, you know that's bullshit. I can only tell you that I'll try. My 30 year high school reunion is coming up, and if I can't find some things to write about after that experience, then I'm probably actually brain dead. Just like Keith Richards, except less wrinkly. 

     Cheers, you guys.

I Just Found Out I'm NOT Ernest Hemingway.

Turns out THIS is Ernest Hemingway. Brilliant. And also dead.

     Two months. It's been over two months since my last post. You know, the one where I said that, once I got moved and settled into my new place (post-divorce), I'd be writing more consistently. (That sound you hear is me, choking on irony.) I have not been writing - but I don't want you to get the impression I've been idle, either. Here, then, is a list of things I know I have done in the past two months, that have kept me from my own blog:

     *I was asleep. Not for two whole months. That's a coma, and comas are not funny. (I mean, maybe they could be a little funny - as long as they're not happening to you.)

     *I had to vacuum the apartment. Like, a lot.

     *Laundry. Because dingy underwear stifles creativity. 

     *I was drunk. Again, not for two whole months. That really would be like Hemingway, but the awesomeness of that would probably be outweighed by the tragicness of it. And the violent puking.

     *I had to come off my meds. Not because they were no longer needed, necessarily. But because they are really fucking expensive. I did, however, buy a My First Super Science Junior Chemistry Set, and the first full season of Breaking Bad on DVD. So, I reckon I'm gonna have the whole medication issue handled pretty damn quick. 

     And now you know why I'm not Hemingway. That motherfucker could write no matter what was happening around him. Or to him. You know, like... World War I. And living in Paris. And the Spanish Civil War. And being on safari in Africa, where he survived two consecutive plane crashes, and was probably writing about it while the aircraft was plunging towards the ground. He literally drank so much that a writer named Phillip Greene wrote a book called "To Have and Have Another," which was a book dedicated solely to Hemingway's alcohol habits. He was spied on by J. Edgar Hoover. Married and divorced four times. Hypertensive. Was damn near gored by a bull. 

     But the sonofabitch kept on writing. 

     I truly believed that, having been away from this space for two months, I would find it dusty, moldy, and unkempt from lack of use. But I was wrong. Turns out that you guys have been faithfully coming back here, reading old posts, maybe sharing this space with people who didn't know about it. Thanks for being patient with me, and for continuing to read me, even though I'm not Hemingway, which, all things considered, I'd rather be me than him, anyway. Mostly on account of he's dead. And also, I have no room in this apartment whatsoever to display a Pulitzer or a Nobel. Not that I wouldn't make an effort, if I ever received one. Actually, I think both those awards come in medal form - so I'd probably just wear that shit around all day.

#literarybling

Stay in touch, y'all.