We’re as ubiquitous to the profession as a Weenie Bite Competition is to a Biker Rally: Non-writing writers. The corpses of our stillborn ideas and best intentions lay dying a slow death in computer file folders across the land. They languish, starved and forgotten in the yellowed pages of countless notebooks. They haunt the collective creative consciousness of us all; not quite dead, but not among the living either. We are the slobbering, warty bridge trolls who live in self-imposed exile beneath the literary highway overpass; a highway traveled by those far better than us. And by far better, I don’t mean smarter or more gifted or funnier or more educated or better looking (though don’t rule it out);
By far better, I mean people who actually get up in the morning, make up stuff and write it down, go to work, come home, feed the kids, give the spouse some sweet, sweet lovin’, hose off, then sit down and write more stuff down. Then they go to sleep, get up and do it all over again. And again. And again. THAT’S what I mean by “far better”. Capiche? Yeah. You know what I’m talking about, cuz you’re NOT one of them:.
Hey. Welcome to the clubhouse. Here’s a weak cocktail and the secret handshake. It’s a losers club, sorry to say, and we’re all long-time members. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be a member of this club any longer. I want to join the club down the street. The nice one with the valet parking and cool leather couches and premium liquor and complimentary massages from a German guy named Arnold. You gotta pay dues to get into that club, though. Lots of dues. You gotta pay em, and you gotta keep paying em.
Our club? Heck no. It’s a free ride, baby! Free for life! Free and easy…or is it? The unhappy truth is, our sad sorority exacts a price, too, only you won’t know it until it’s too late…not ’til you’re sucking O2 from a ventilator as the Grim Reaper curls his grey finger around your life string and starts to tug on it. THEN the bill comes due, and you’ll pay it in regret and bitterness. It will sound like this: “ihavesomuchtosaysomanystoriestotellandnowtheywilldiewithmewaitwaitwait imnotreadyyetaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!”
What’s worse is, the older I get, the more real that vision becomes. Closer as well. And it scares me. I bet it scares you too. You wouldn’t be hanging around a disreputable blog like this if it didn’t. Oh snap! Takes one to know one. Well, it’s time for us to start paying our dues. Time to crawl out from under the bridge and claim to our place on the glittering highway to writerly Nirvana. Let’s give the Grim Reaper the flying middle finger and proudly exclaim, “Kiss my squirrel, Death! The day you take me, there will be no more stories to be told!”
That means work. Lots of it.
Will it be hard? You bet your pale, hairy ass it will. So what. We’re doing this together. Misery LOVES company, right?! (Especially the kind that brings a cold bottle of Russian Standard, some great tunes and a bag of ‘shrooms to the party, but that’s off topic) Let’s get funky. Let’s get nasty. Let’s fling off all our clothes and write some amazing shiznit. Let’s write our guts out. What say? Cool? Cool.
Great. Here’s the lowdown.
I will post some stuff on this here bloggedy blog that may help you write and keep you writing. How do I know it may help? Because if it’s posted here, it somehow managed to move me from my supremely comfortable bed (aka The Craftmatic Adjustable Boyfriend as my friend Lisa calls it) to the desk. That’s no small feat, mind you. My bed has full body massage capabilities and a wireless remote. Oh yeah. Mmmmmm……..*snork* Huh? What happened?
Oops. Embarrassing. Anyway.
So that’s the deal. Be warned. I”ll try anything, so keep a fire extinguisher and a jar of vaseline handy at all times. Go get them. Now. I’ll wait. Done? Excellent work.
Now let us proceed.