The Joys of Writing

Oh writing, how I love you. When I’m writing I feel such a sense of accomplishment. I feel like I have the world figured out and that it all makes sense. I feel like I could solve the world’s problems if people would just take heed of my writings. We all know that this is bullshit as most of my writings are dick and fart jokes, but you know what? That’s ok because even one laugh is enough to change the outlook of one person’s day. And I’m ok with that.

When I’m not writing, I fantasize about writing. I love it. I’m enamored with it. I love the romantic idea of Hunter S. Thompsoning it. Sitting down at a typewriter in the mountains and writing a novel that is….not shooting myself in the head while my son sleeps in the next room. I love the thrill of a new idea coming to my head for a novel. I ravage doing outlines of those novels finding all the twists and turns that a story can take and what level of “OH MY FUCKING GOD!” I can take the reader.

But this is the problem. I never write those novels. The outlines sit there glaring at me like a forgotten dried up pot plant. They have such promise if I would just water them. So what’s the problem? Is it the blank page? Is the fear of failure? Probably. But look at this blog; I have overcome the fear of the blank page simply by letting my fingers write something. And what they write about is that I need to write more.

I have had a pretty shocking week work wise. I can’t really get into but to say that I have been under a lot of stress would be an understatement, but right now as my fingers dance over these keys, I can feel the stress leave my body and I can feel the muscles in my shoulders start to unravel. When I have a direction with my words nothing else in the universe can stop me. However, a small child or a ringing phone can. And then what? The zen like state of writing is broken and I’m stuck. Staring at the screen at that blinking cursor wondering what the hell I was typing and where was I going with it. Speaking of which, outside of the little asshole paperclip that Microsoft Word used to have is there any more pompous, opinionated, cock sucker outside of the blinking cursor. He just sits there at the end of your powerful sentence that WAS going somewhere and says, “What now asshole? Hmm? Got a clever line?” Fuck you, cursor, you judgmental dick.

Let me tell you something cursor, just because you are always one step ahead of what I write doesn’t make you a literary god. Just because like so many writers I seek to fill you with my thoughts until you burst at the seams, while trying to avoid the vomit that is your squiggly red line that tells me that no matter how well thought out, or how witty my line….I still have the spelling ability of a six year old cat.

You may have defeated me in the past with your intimidation or distracted me with one of your jerk friends like Java or iTunes who wants to know if I want to update for the SIX MILLIONTH TIME! NO I FUCKING DO NOT! And if you don’t mind Apple and Java I’m trying to explain to cursor WHY the joke about the moose that ate the coconut is worth being in my essay about early US literature and I don’t need your shit.

So Cursor. Now that your friends have been put in their place and I have your full attention it’s time to show you once and for all that I am truly the master of my writing. I have avoided your red squiggly lines, except in the word “intimidation” but fuck it “imitation” will have to do until I decide to edit. NOT YOU! So. I have been writing this for at least fifteen minutes. I have reached my zen like state. My fingers furiously floating over this keyboard with a surgeon’s precision. I’m going to tell you WHY my writing is so important! WHY I have all the answers and why the world should read my words in god damn awe!

Opps…that’s the phone. I’ll be right back.

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