If you’ve been reading the blog for long enough and have a memory better than mine, which if I’m being honest isn’t hard to come across because it’s almost as short as my attention whatsamacallit, you’ll recall how I made mention of the fact that I don’t really like to read that much when I’m writing because I find the stylings of the current author I’m giving my precious spare time to tend to creep into my own writings and then my own voice gets muffled and shit just goes sideways.
Sometimes it doesn’t even have to be a whole book, just a blurb.
One time, I was trying to write a bedtime story for my Mini-Monster and I got distracted by the bookshelf. I read the blurbs to the ’50 shades of awful’ books and suddenly Mr and Mrs Bunny were having really cheesily written choke sex and at the end of it he bought her an Audi.
Well the same could be said currently but more so in the form of my blog posts.
I like to use the blog as a little launching pad into writing. A way to clear congestion in the brain.
But it’s me so it’s more like constipation than congestion. Just lots or straining, red faces with bulging neck veins, rank brain-farts and crying.
Soooooo much crying.
Thanks to the marvellous book “The subtle art of not giving a fuck” (a counterintuitive approach to living a good life) I can’t even pinch off a hard dehydrated nugget of a blog post without attempting to transmorph it into some deeply philosophical bullshit.
Can you imagine? Me, philosophical.
The same eloquent wordsmith that just now and come to think of it quite frequently, compares writers block to savage face tingling constipation.
I can probably be philosophical or deep and meaningful. I don’t doubt I’ve done it before. But much like trying to evacuate that deeply anchored, hard, angry shit that’s stuck inside the bowels of my brain, a shit so girthy that it’s stretched the smooth muscle to the point that it can’t relax and contract to move the beast along, it can only hope to hold on to it’s very fibres and pray to make it through without perforating; the act of trying to force it out will likely cause some horrendous rosebud incident from which I will never fully recover.
For all time wincing at its memory and having to poop/write with special assistance. Maybe a doughnut or some topical ointment, digitally applied in a gently clockwork motion.
It’s far safer to go ahead and do what I always do when things like this happen to me.
Sit and wait.
Just ask the Wif.
Actually I’m kidding (lie), the best way to beat it is to relax and just let the words happen.
It’ll finally clear the gunk out of the system and I can get on with concentrating on other writings.
And who knows, if I’m lucky I may end up providing my loyal readers/victims of eyeball abuse with something that’s accidently philosophical.
Like how when you get stuck trying to be something you’re not, why not try just being you because you’re good enough. Besides, imitation may be the most sincere form of flattery, but if we all go around trying to imitate one another then what happens to that unique little bit of magic that makes you you?
It gets clogged in your brain bowels behind your imitation of someone else and you’ll likely end up prolapsing before you see your own style again if you force it.
Just do your own thing, the worlds already full of enough shits that look the same.
P.S. Speaking of shit (my memory that is) I just remembered that it wasn’t a blog post where I said that I don’t like reading while writing, it was a bookface post where I said that I prefer to look at cool pics while writing for inspirational purposes because that way I get ideas without getting style forced onto me.
I also linked to the amazing art work of painter Jakub Rozalski who is just…. Just fucking amazing.
Well his work is. I never met the guy.
Probably a nice fellow though.
No Bob Ross but.