BAD BLOG BUKKAKE

 

And that's how I know I'm done writing for the day.

The story this clip is from has been and still is a royal bitch to write. I'm about halfway through the whole work, which is to say the bones of the first draft are written and do hold up. Shakily. To reach this point, I've had to veritably give up this blog for damn near a month (or was it more?). But I have to blog as well or else I get to feeling like a bit of a lazy twat. My occipital lobe doesn't get any exercise and that fucks with my center, see. Now, it should take maybe twenty minutes or a half an hour to write one of these, right?

Hell no.  

Why? It still has to be somewhat right. Because if a piece people are going to read isn't right--doesn't matter how many readers it is--the writer is going to stew in neurosis at every idle moment over the piece. Luckily, I can go in and edit my blog when I want to. But what if I couldn't? Better yet, what if I learn to think like I couldn't by not allowing myself to? If I was a journalist, I'd be shot. Also, what if I went outside and chewed on a tree?

This was a tree:

Vonnegut fans will get this joke.

Wait, what?

Precisely. I don't know either. And it goes like that with writing. You write maybe a thousand words. Go over it and ask yourself what is it a bigger part of? Who is this person chewing on the tree? Why does he chew on trees? Is there a deeper context for his chewings and does he spit their pieces into a plot pyramid of mulchy pulp copy? Does he blow sap from his stump at the climax? Next thing you know, other characters are entering this mix and turning your head into a cartoon orgy which compels you, not unlike the power of Christ, to type 150 words a minute until you can't breathe anymore.

Then in the morning you're dry, no juice, warrior spirit cooking eggs in happy land and late for his office job in your psyche and you're floppy no morning wood and wind up like this poor schmuck:

That was me this morning.

Why do it then? Because I have to! Fingers flittering on keys ejaculate words same as once did the "bukkake of bad poets" as Cave called Bukowski. And now I have to worry about judgement calls like that. Are these words just dick sputum on poor, unsuspecting faces upturned in abject coke frenzy stinking of fish and dark codpiece musk of pheromone?*

*that there is an example of a paragraph I'd usually cut but I'm leaving it just fer yew*  

I write a part. Read it and try to perfect the writing as I read. Looking for the ways one line follows the other. Is that the line my mind wants, or should there be another there? It's perfect at the end of the day and in the morning I deicide it's all shit and ought to write it again but can't because I have to spit this other part out or it'll float away like an akashic fart. I puke word salad in which is a kick ass sort of happening, but the awesome is caught in the subtext I have to toss and dress. I have written paragraphs whose every sentence should have been its own paragraph. 

This is maybe 600 words, maybe a little more. If I polish this, even 600 words can take hours. 

Not today, Kemosabe. Today we fire from the hip, strictly from cough syrup, strictly from bad sentences that begin with "of cold pyrex" and end with "in sold cookies."

Imagine going through 160k words of this. To quote the Doctor: "Impossible to walk in this muck!" It's rewarding and almost sexual in its grandiosity, but you have to be certain kind of mad to pull it off, said the pretentious ghost broke like a pauper's mother at the pest-house brothel. And blew kisses--

If you made it this far, know there's a lot of love in this finger.