What Do I Write? Whaddya Got?
“Just write something… Anything”, they have told me, again and again.
Here’s the problem: I am so used to writing when the muse descends, that I’m not actually sure how writing regularly would work. The muse herself is more fickle than a high school girlfriend, feeding me peeled, vanilla-dipped grapes with one hand while slapping my face with the other. And often, what I thought was champagne when it first came out turns out to be, upon later review, Grade A, Premium Toilet Water.
I guess I am, by far, not the first person to suffer through this. I don’t imagine I’m anything special. Look, I’d like to think that I’m a little special. More so than the guy buying bullets off of a TV shopping channel at two in the morning, naked except for his socks and wondering if the chick who answered his phone call is single. (Well, that guy might be special, too, but more in a kind of “Needs newspaper under the chair at mealtimes” kind of way) I would like to think that Asimov, Crichton, Goldman and even King Stephen started their days out staring at a blank something, wondering furtively if their subconscious is going to puke something out for them any time soon. (I wonder if Barbara Cartland ever had that problem) It’s one of those weird human conditions: You have a thousand examples of a specific thing – Favourite songs, recipes that use macadamias, places where you can buy crepe paper – which you are happy to share in an almost scattershot fashion until someone actually asks you about it. Then every thought you’ve ever had that has even a tenuous connection to the subject matter at hand flees your skull, heading for high ground like a claims adjustor was at the door. That seems to be my problem as well: I’ll chew your fucking ear off quite easily on a number of inane and irrelevant topics, but if you ask me first my diatribes go limp and vanish like it’s a winter morning in the pool.
But here’s what I do know: There’s a lot of shit bouncing around in my head. A lot of it – Hell, most of it – is pointless, unrelated to anything which will grant a person the ability to feed and clothe their children and make sure the tax man stays in his cage. But, to me, that pointless stuff is still fun. Over the years it has gotten me laid, gotten people to befriend me, gotten me into and out of all kinds of trouble, but most of all, gotten me “over”, in the parlance of the professional wrestler. People know me and remember me as That Guy, the guy who has a story or a trivial fact about basically anything you can think of. I’m pretty sure my relationship with my best friend is built entirely upon this fact, the two of us more-more-less just hurling disjointed facts at each other over pizza, then commenting on how nice the waitress’ boobs are. Because, I suppose, the greatest joy I receive is not in the accumulation or possession of my treasure trove of irreverent gems, but in the sharing thereof. I’m less Scrooge McDuck and more Richard Pryor from Brewster’s Millions in that regard. (If you haven’t seen Brewster’s Millions, don’t blame me for the hole in your childhood)
The thing about knowledge and anecdotes is that they exist to be shared, in my mind. Not to make me seem smart or interesting, but to enrich or enlighten someone else in some small way. In any small way. Look, I am no fan of the Human Race. I think that as a species we are one of the worst things that has happened to evolution since it gave us Brussel sprouts, and by and large I think that people are irredeemable assholes. So, I’m not some altruistic Fact and Story Fairy, running around sprinkling my Magical Trivia Dust on everything for the betterment of all mankind. (“Hey, did you know that the human body can generate anywhere between 10 and 100 millivolts of electricity? Remind me to tell you about the time I shocked myself with the Christmas lights when I was 10 years old. Have A Trivial Day!!”) But, on top of all my cynicism about our species in general, I do recognise this: None of us ask to be here. (Well, that we know of. But that’s a debate for another day…) So, since we’re all bumbling through this together, why not make it easier for each other, or at the very least more fun. Plus, while I do not like people, as a broad group, I also realize that most individual persons are actually quite pleasant, it’s just when you put us in groups that we start to become a problem. So why not be friendly to each other when we’re hanging around?
So, I do like to talk to people, share and bandy about ideas, just have some fun with the wonderful gifts that language and communication are. But, more and more as I get older, I feel like holding exclusive providence over what’s in my head is killing me. Not in a metaphorical sense, like “These shoes are killing me after my totes AwEsOmE shopping spree” or “My back is killing me after dragging those four corpses to the river”, but actually killing me. There is a tide of words I choke back every day, and eventually it will drown me. So, before the levee breaks, let’s see if I can put the force of said tide to good use.
Words are wonderful and powerful things, friends and neighbours, and yet we misuse them every day. I have composed lengthy emails about how I hate the offering at my local cinema, or how a given sports team has let me down yet again, but I don’t always take the time to share what’s valuable, important or just plain cool. I think few of us actually do. So, why not uncork it and see what happens.
I want to unchain my inner Word Beast and let it run free. I think it has earned that privilege. Along the way, let see what it digs up. Some of it will be shit, some of it may not matter, but in the relating of its findings, perhaps there’s some salvation in it not just for me, but for anyone who may stumble across it.
Now, about that time with the Christmas lights…
Here’s the problem: I am so used to writing when the muse descends, that I’m not actually sure how writing regularly would work. The muse herself is more fickle than a high school girlfriend, feeding me peeled, vanilla-dipped grapes with one hand while slapping my face with the other. And often, what I thought was champagne when it first came out turns out to be, upon later review, Grade A, Premium Toilet Water.
I guess I am, by far, not the first person to suffer through this. I don’t imagine I’m anything special. Look, I’d like to think that I’m a little special. More so than the guy buying bullets off of a TV shopping channel at two in the morning, naked except for his socks and wondering if the chick who answered his phone call is single. (Well, that guy might be special, too, but more in a kind of “Needs newspaper under the chair at mealtimes” kind of way) I would like to think that Asimov, Crichton, Goldman and even King Stephen started their days out staring at a blank something, wondering furtively if their subconscious is going to puke something out for them any time soon. (I wonder if Barbara Cartland ever had that problem) It’s one of those weird human conditions: You have a thousand examples of a specific thing – Favourite songs, recipes that use macadamias, places where you can buy crepe paper – which you are happy to share in an almost scattershot fashion until someone actually asks you about it. Then every thought you’ve ever had that has even a tenuous connection to the subject matter at hand flees your skull, heading for high ground like a claims adjustor was at the door. That seems to be my problem as well: I’ll chew your fucking ear off quite easily on a number of inane and irrelevant topics, but if you ask me first my diatribes go limp and vanish like it’s a winter morning in the pool.
But here’s what I do know: There’s a lot of shit bouncing around in my head. A lot of it – Hell, most of it – is pointless, unrelated to anything which will grant a person the ability to feed and clothe their children and make sure the tax man stays in his cage. But, to me, that pointless stuff is still fun. Over the years it has gotten me laid, gotten people to befriend me, gotten me into and out of all kinds of trouble, but most of all, gotten me “over”, in the parlance of the professional wrestler. People know me and remember me as That Guy, the guy who has a story or a trivial fact about basically anything you can think of. I’m pretty sure my relationship with my best friend is built entirely upon this fact, the two of us more-more-less just hurling disjointed facts at each other over pizza, then commenting on how nice the waitress’ boobs are. Because, I suppose, the greatest joy I receive is not in the accumulation or possession of my treasure trove of irreverent gems, but in the sharing thereof. I’m less Scrooge McDuck and more Richard Pryor from Brewster’s Millions in that regard. (If you haven’t seen Brewster’s Millions, don’t blame me for the hole in your childhood)
The thing about knowledge and anecdotes is that they exist to be shared, in my mind. Not to make me seem smart or interesting, but to enrich or enlighten someone else in some small way. In any small way. Look, I am no fan of the Human Race. I think that as a species we are one of the worst things that has happened to evolution since it gave us Brussel sprouts, and by and large I think that people are irredeemable assholes. So, I’m not some altruistic Fact and Story Fairy, running around sprinkling my Magical Trivia Dust on everything for the betterment of all mankind. (“Hey, did you know that the human body can generate anywhere between 10 and 100 millivolts of electricity? Remind me to tell you about the time I shocked myself with the Christmas lights when I was 10 years old. Have A Trivial Day!!”) But, on top of all my cynicism about our species in general, I do recognise this: None of us ask to be here. (Well, that we know of. But that’s a debate for another day…) So, since we’re all bumbling through this together, why not make it easier for each other, or at the very least more fun. Plus, while I do not like people, as a broad group, I also realize that most individual persons are actually quite pleasant, it’s just when you put us in groups that we start to become a problem. So why not be friendly to each other when we’re hanging around?
So, I do like to talk to people, share and bandy about ideas, just have some fun with the wonderful gifts that language and communication are. But, more and more as I get older, I feel like holding exclusive providence over what’s in my head is killing me. Not in a metaphorical sense, like “These shoes are killing me after my totes AwEsOmE shopping spree” or “My back is killing me after dragging those four corpses to the river”, but actually killing me. There is a tide of words I choke back every day, and eventually it will drown me. So, before the levee breaks, let’s see if I can put the force of said tide to good use.
Words are wonderful and powerful things, friends and neighbours, and yet we misuse them every day. I have composed lengthy emails about how I hate the offering at my local cinema, or how a given sports team has let me down yet again, but I don’t always take the time to share what’s valuable, important or just plain cool. I think few of us actually do. So, why not uncork it and see what happens.
I want to unchain my inner Word Beast and let it run free. I think it has earned that privilege. Along the way, let see what it digs up. Some of it will be shit, some of it may not matter, but in the relating of its findings, perhaps there’s some salvation in it not just for me, but for anyone who may stumble across it.
Now, about that time with the Christmas lights…
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