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10/14/2004: "Writers' Block Party"
Tonight, for the first time in over a week, I found myself with some
actual time to sit down and write. No sooner had I gotten comfy in front
of the keyboard than writers' block set in.
I rarely get writers' block. My usual writing routine consists of getting
an idea, just before I drift off to sleep, jotting that idea down in the
notebook I keep beside my bed, and then writing about that idea when I
wake up. More often than not, this routine has worked for me.
On those rare occasions when I'm faced with writers' block, I usually do
one of two things. The first is to see if Michelle Malkin has written
anything stupid that I can make fun of. Today, Michelle's column was about
Democrats physically attacking Republicans. This isn't something that I'm
really in favor of, although it does beg the question "If the Republicans
can't fend off a few tofu-eating, tree-hugging Democrats, how can they
stand up to al Qaeda?"
Shit, Luther, if you wanna see Democrats in attack mode just ask one to
sign a petition to put Ralph Nader on the ballot. Caffeineated Jesus on a
latte binge, just saying Nader's name aloud will turn the wimpiest old
Dead Head into fuckin' Mike Tyson.
Having judged Malkin not worth wasting any more ones and zeroes on, I
moved along to my second source of inspiration. This would be a copy of
The Practice of Writing which I picked up for the princely sum of
$1 at a used-book store.
The Practice of Writing * is a wonderfully useless book that's
chock full o' pointless writing exercises which I often pervert to my own
ends. For example, if The Practice of Writing suggests that I "draw
up a chronology of five events in my life from birth to present" I do it -
only I do it while pretending that I'm Rasputin.
1. I am born in the Tyumen district of Siberia - which totally sucks ass.
Not the being born part, although I have been led to understand that it
was a traumatic event for all involved, but the location. Siberia is a
cold and desolate region where the chief occupations are yak rapist,
village idiot, and crazed mystic. I hope to be the latter.
2. At the age of five, I discover that I posses the power of Mesmerism. I
start off small, hypnotizing ants and beetles and forcing them to do my
bidding, which mostly consists of crawling around. Within a few months I
have worked my way up to shellfish, although I suffer a temporary setback
when I discover that chickens are much harder to hypnotize than they look.
By the time I reach puberty, I can put a goat to sleep with the aid of
nothing more than a pocket watch and a large rock.
3. In my early thirties I embarked on a successful career as a Holy Man
employing the novel idea of using sin to drive out sin. You know, like
fighting fire with fire. The way this worked was that, in order to reach
God, you need to communicate with him. Now, the best way to get God's
attention is confess a sin and ask for forgiveness. Do you see where I'm
going with this? No sin - no communication. Long story short - I got to
talk to god…a lot.
4. I am introduced to Tsarina Alexandra. Jesus, the hips on that broad!
Honestly, she looked as if someone had opened a bakery under her dress.
She's going on-and-on about her son's hemophilia and all I can think is
"It must have cost a fortune to widen all of the palace's doorways so that
this escapee from the imperial stables can pass through." Seriously, she
looked like a frickin' moose wearing a tiara.
Anyway, she's bawlin' her chubby eyes out because her son, Alexis, has a
nosebleed that has been running like a facet for three days now, and she
wants me to stop it. So I go down the hall to kid's room and open the
door, real quiet like, and catch the little bastard shoving a Faberge egg
up his nose. Turns out the Tsarevich wasn't a hemophiliac after all - he
was just some sort of nose-freak. Well, I set the brat down and explained
that if he would ease up on violating his nostrils then good ol' Uncle
Gregory would arrange for him to have nice treat every now and then - like
riding a pony or beating a peasant.
5. Prince Felix Felixovich Yussupov has invited me over to his place,
tonight, for cake. I'll write more when I get back.
* The best thing about my copy of the book is that its former owner
scrawled tons of fascinating crap in the book's margins like "Michelle
[Malkin?] - I was looking through last year's yearbook and found
out that 'Andy King' (in our math class) is really called Britt."
WTFMYV? Andy King is really Britt? That's more fodder for a short
story than any of the ideas offered in the actual text of The Practice
of Writing.
grafw - to write
If the above word looks like ippojshit to you,
then you need to go here
and download the SPIONIC font for either MAC or PC. Dude.
