The Problem.

This is not the problem. This is a desk.

No. The problem, if I'm being completely honest, is that I seem to be unable to write on a daily (or even weekly) basis unless at least one part of my life is crashing into ruin. (AUTHOR'S NOTE: no part of my life, that I am aware of, is currently crashing into ruin. I'm merely making a point here. Not a confession.) 

I'm reminded of something I heard from a lovely singer/songwriter once, Carsie Blanton. As she was winding up her next song, she said (paraphrasing), "This next tune is a bit of a departure for me. I wrote it while in the middle of a real creative dry spell. And I was in that dry spell because, at the time, I happened to be in a healthy relationship." Thank you, Carsie, for hitting the nail on the head. Or, more precisely, for hitting my thumb, which was conveniently located on top of that nail. Look, I am not suggesting that being in a healthy relationship kills creativity. I am saying it DIRECTLY and OUT LOUD. Of course being emotionally happy kills creativity. No less an authority than Mark Twain put it out there when he said, "The secret source of humor itself is not joy, but sorrow. There is no humor in heaven." This isn't just me talking. Or even Twain. There's fucking science to back this up now. I am in a loving, emotionally stable (mostly) relationship. I enjoy my children. I have a small but robust circle of friends. And I am less prolific on the page than I have been since I got all those things. And I am far less funny.

Now I know what some of you are thinking. No worries, Lar. It's YOU. Pretty soon you'll fuck it all up, your life will go back to the shit heap, and then you'll be hitting the keys every day, dumping out your purse for the world to see, and it'll be hysterical, and we'll all laugh and be grateful we're not you. Except the thing is: I kind of LIKE the way my life is, now. I don't like it every day, to be sure. But I can say unequivocally that it's waaaayyy better than it was when I first began writing in this space, or even when I was writing the book. The idea of having to torpedo my life just to get back to that wellspring of creative misery... that choice doesn't appeal to me.

I don't know what the solution is, and I would be highly suspicious (or homicidally envious) of anyone who claims to know. I suppose, for a while at least, that writing will be a slog. For the three or four of you who will read this, fair warning: my next few posts are liable to be exceptionally ordinary.  I am in the process of getting back into a habit, and that process is often ugly. Like, getting-back-into-the-gym-and-those-sweatpants-should-be-in-a-larger-size ugly. I believe, at an intellectual level, that I can be a prolific writer AND be reasonably happy. Well, maybe not prolific. I'm in no danger of becoming the next Stephen King (mostly because I'm pretty sure ALL that guy does is write. Has he even stopped to take a dump since 1974?). Maybe it's enough to say that I believe I can be creative on the page at least fairly regularly, and that posting on this space is my weekly dose of fiber to keep things moving. (Man, I really went too far with the whole poop analogy. Apologies to Stephen King.)

So, here's to the Slog. And whatever your Slog is, just keep at it. Day drinking helps. Talk soon.

Lar

Let's Talk About This Sh*t.

     

If I ever get the book published, I'd like this to be the cover. I think it really encapsulates all sides of my personality: from "Clearly doesn't give a shit about what he's wearing," to "Why is he riding a fucking llama?"

     I know. This is the part where I make a lot of excuses about why I haven't posted in so long. (I even thought about saying that I only just this moment sobered up from the reunion. But for that to be true, I'd have to have a real, actual, dangerous relationship with alcohol, instead of the fun, just friends, only-sometimes-dangerous relationship that I really have.) So instead I'm going to skip the excuse part and get right to the post.

     I finished writing a book this year. It's a memoir, which basically means I can't think of anything better to write about than myself, which is either the most pathetic or the most narcissistic thing ever, maybe both. Take your pick. Anyway, I've been trying to get a literary agent, which is, truth be told, not going well. The reason it's not going well, by the way, is not because potential agents think the book sucks. Some of them have actually told me they think it's pretty good, written as it is by a middle-aged child with a depressive disorder and a really healthy relationship with good whiskey. But they won't represent me, because I don't have a platform. I recently learned this term, as it applies to the literary world. Basically, it means that because I'm not a YouTuber or a Viner with a million or more subscribers, or a Class C reality celebrity who already has a built-in "audience," they don't give two shits about the actual literary merit of the book. I had a literary agent tell me - to my face - that publishers are only looking for "sure things." Yeah, probably the YouTuber or the Viner or the Class C reality celebrity can't actually write, but that's what ghost-writers are for, and they can pretty much count on making a calculated amount of profit from a book that is, essentially, not worth wiping your ass with. But it will sell because the "author" has a platform. 

     I thought long and hard about this, and here's what I've concluded: bullshit. I'm probably being super-duper naive, because I know that publishing is a business. Publishing wants to make money, just like the automotive industry and housing construction and porn. I get it. But what I'm learning about publishing - and maybe life in general - is that fewer and fewer people are actually willing to take risks. Let me ask you this: do you think we'd have Hemingway, or any film by Quentin Tarantino, or even this fucking Mac Book I'm typing a little too hard on, if some people hadn't been willing to take some risks? 

     So fuck it. I am about to take a risk. Here's my risk: I'm going to put my memoir right here, on this blog. You heard me. I'm going to post one chapter a week, which means I'll have the whole thing posted in 44 weeks, plus two Epilogues and one P.S. And I'd like to ask a favor of the tiny number of you who have actually followed me from the beginning: if you like what you're reading, please share it with the world. If you don't like it, don't read it. That's fair. But since I'm putting it out here for free, I'm asking you - if you dig it - to pay it forward. (I really don't like that term, because I think it's a little cliche, but I'm kind of drunk and sleepy and can't think of a better line. Probably I will in the morning.) 

     Take a chance with me, y'all. 

     

#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.