Writing

Something weird happens when you sit down to write--not when you have something to say--but just because it's high time you got your act in gear and put words to page. You hope, as you blindly start, that the words will somehow magically flow--that it will take a dam to staunch the torrential flood of genius bursting forward. This is what you hope--yet, as you find yourself carefully constructing phrases and meticulously pouring over word choice, you realize that word fairies don't exist, and Wordsworth lied about Tinturn Abbey.

You complete your first paragraph--painfully you recognize it doesn't really accomplish anything. While there are words, they don't really say anything, and that's cheating. Panacea constitutional torturous enjoin atelier quotidian gesticulate nebbish onus torpor frangible--see? At this point you realize--time for a thesis, there's gotta be a focus. What?--there was that one guy singing with his headphones in about smoking guns and coming home that reminded you of that one time when the neighbor girls sang Kelly Clarkson with her headphones in and you wished she really would fall to pieces. Or how you wanted to use a specific line--"Could you two continue your petty bickering? I find it most intriguing." You could go deep and despondent and write from the place nobody else seems to get, but you remember you've done that a lot recently and it's starting to get a little old (besides making your mom wonder if you're "Ok"). Crap--you're rambling again.

You've tried your hand at being a pocket philosopher. Readers seemed to think that the wisdom of "don't be stupid" went without saying. A commentary on the lazy technique of the informal second-person used here and how its critical theory psychoanalysis ties of repression and distancing may lead to a deeper understanding of the speaker would probably bore internets. No good--you need the perfect subject...DAMN YOU Jim Gaffigan! I was totally going to say all that stuff about bacon...I mean you--lazy second-person technique you--you were going to say it.

Doubt starts to fester. Maybe you're not a writer. Maybe you should just give up...C'mon, who are you fooling anyways? Even Stephanie Meyers got published, and here you sit--a dwarfed, pathetic, husk of a writer--beaten out by sparkly vampires and prepubescent fantasies...not even worthy of touching a keyboard. Stop it! You tell yourself--it's just the bad demon angel that wears red and holds a fork and sits on your shoulder to get in distracting fights with the good angel talking. You're better than that. It'll come--your inspiration will hit, and there will be the ethereal column of light and the angel choirs and everything....

Caravans! That's it--the perfect thesis. Focused. Unusual. Camels are inherently funny/looking. There's the appeal of the exotic east; plus, hardly anybody knows anything about them so it's your word against theirs. Yes! Caravans...let's see, there's sand, and hot, and turbans....and....um, there's sand, and hot....and....uh....crap. That's a really bad idea isn't it? You don't know shit about caravans. Maybe you should take a break. Like...right now.