This is a sign of my growing distaste for real work.
I woke up with a twisted haze floating around my eyes and the feeling that hangovers are in my DNA. The Drunkard’s Genome Project should receive some Stimulating benefits via Uncle Sam Adams. Most of the low-end bottles I saw in the trash can this morning had “Union Made” on the label. That makes it a legitimate industry for gubment help. Yes? No? Yeah, I don’t see my point either. This is further proof that I’m avoiding real work and rambling in hopes of finding something worth saying…

The real work is not taking yourself so seriously that every little thing is called “Real Work”, when typing to total strangers and those randomly courageous friends one has inherited along one’s path.

Right now, the real work is overcoming a bubbling distaste for my writing. This foulness, similar to sucking rancid meat juices off a homeless guy’s big toe, has developed into a full-blown nightmare. For the moment.
NOT the “Writer’s Block” everyone dreams about. I say “dreams” because it often seems that folks use “Writer’s Block” as an excuse to smell like a writer because hot bath of reality is too painful. They are trapped in a world of Fear and Laziness so perplexing, it is rationalized by Psychologists, Psychiatrist, and your favorite hair stylist alike. No, what I’ve got going on is running along this way.

I’ve got plenty to say, plenty of ideas, and plenty of work ethic…but every thing I hear in my head SUCKS comparatively speaking, to the words I’ve spent the day reading. That, my friends, is FEAR. NOT Writer’s Block.

Comic Interlude:

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I once thought of self-publishing a series of short stories and entitling the collection, “A Writer’s Block.”

Get it?

If writer’s get Writer’s Block, do executioner’s get Chopping Block?

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The source of my literary halitosis is my ill-advised attempts at finding ‘inspiration’. I also think ‘inspiration’ is overrated like Mojitos and drunk girls making out in front of cell phones…but skip that, for now. I picked up this book of Short Stories, grabbed a cup of coffee and sat outside to read a line or fifty. By the time I finished the first story, I was as depressed as a Jewish kid on Christmas morning.

The truth is every writer feels this way but, well, I normally don’t feel this way at all. Of all the hatchet jobs I’ve done on my frail self-esteem, insulting the words in my head as never crossed my mind. But I read a few more stories and heard this low moaning coming from deep within…down where words are scarce and ill-fitting (I’ve used that same description in a story once).

I guess the part of this that applies to other writers is that we’ve all felt like shit on the shoe soles of successful scribes. Those bastards whose words dart off the page and into our minds with a laser’s pace and precision.

It can make you sick, really. Yeah, they’re professionals, and have paid their dues, and have had their work edited, sliced, diced, collated, collaborated, and passed around to enough literary snobs to fill a private college campus…but still.

It makes you sick when that little voice says, “You’ll never ever be that good.”

Bastards.

By the end of the night this will pass. I don’t really mind the random attack of Fear. Most times I just laugh at it, sit down, and write whatever random words I hear.

Which is what I did just now…

-John.

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