Terrible, terrible things

Okay, weekend's over. Back to the blog. I don't know why I didn't write this weekend. It's not like I consider this "Terrible, terrible things" a job or anything. It's pretty much the only fun writing I do these days. Actually, I did write. I just chose not to share my whining with you, so I deleted it. Bet that hurts, huh?

Confused in Cleveland writes:

Dear Galoot,

What's this thing? No, there, right there, to the left - yeah that. What IS it?

Oh, that. That's a shortcut on my desk to a Word document that I never open. It taunts me.

It's fiction. It's seven chapters of delicious goodness that refuses to grow any bigger, no matter how much I plead. I've been pleading for a year now, but I still can't open it. I've reinstalled my operating system four times in 12 months and, each time, faithfully returned that shortcut icon to its proper place should the time arrive when I am ready to add another chapter. Or at least re-write part of it again.

I still can't open it. My urge to finish the story just stopped in mid-stream. They call it "writer's block." I call it self-flagellation.

I'm waiting for the urge to pick up where I left off. Or the motivation to say "the hell with it" and start something new. That's why I started this stupid blog. So I could at least put words down and *pretend* I'm still writing. (Please keep Asking Galoot. I need to write and all my good anecdotes are used up. The new stuff is too dull to inflict on you.)

Writing is a lot like sex. Sometimes it's fast and nasty and fun and oh-so-satisfying. Other times it's slow and smooth and intimate and flowing. Still other times it's a floppy, flaccid disappointment. Bah.

Truly, the whole writing process is much the same as the journey from flaccidity to orgasm, whether quick-like-rabbit or long and luxurious. Right now I'm feeling a little chubbier than I was two months ago. Maybe this blogging thing is working. Sorta.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, I can feel it. Oh God, I'm going to, OH God, OH OH GOD OH... No. I'm just faking. Still not much motivation to write. This psychic shit drains all my creativity. Maybe I should get a job at Home Hardware. I see that hb's spurting a lot of ink. Oh God!