Like my friend Terri in England, I've been having a bad case of writer's block for ... uuuuhhhh ... six months or so. Ow.
Back in 2001, when I discovered writing (in my own life, that is; I had nothing to do with inventing the alphabet) I could not wait to sit down and write reams and tons and heaps of words about anything from going to the mailbox to toenail fungus. The past year (much of which was spent endlessly editing) however, saw me straining to write anything, be it review or short fiction. Occasionally a small literary turd would plop into the Piker Press, but plops have been few and far between.
As a half-crazed hedge shaman, you'd think there would be plenty to rant about or write about or (preferably) lie about. But how many times can you shout outrage about the proliferation of enormous SUV's and the dumb dollies who use them to race madly to the supermarket to buy a loaf of bread and some fat-free fake ham? By and large, they're stupid, they don't know what being "alive" means, and they drive like they took their driver's test on their backs. But that's ... EVERY DAY. Once or twice, it's amusing. Every day is tedious.
I could tear at my matted uncombed hair and screech about politicians being corrupt, but everyone knows that they are, we don't have a democratic mechanism for getting the dirty bastards out of office (unless they misused a government credit card and then saved all the receipts, which means they're so damn dumb I don't know how they signed up for a government position in the first place) and the Life that Guides the World knows that people want bread on the shelf of the supermarket and gas in the pumps at the truck stop, and an honest and concerned government official who said, "YOU'VE GOT TO STOP STUFFING YOUR FACE AND STOP USING PETROCHEMICALS!" would be lynched before three months of office had past.
And as to lies, how could I possibly come up with a bigger whopper than the woman who pretended to find a dismembered finger in a bowl of Wendy's chili -- only to confess later that she'd used the amputated digit from her ex-husband's co-worker who had handed over the flesh sundered from his hand in an industrial accident in lieu of paying back money that he owed???????????? People like that are just killing fiction writers.
Maybe we should sue.
(Wendy's should definitely sue. In spite of the fact that I know the finger thing was a scam, I can't even look at a Wendy's restaurant sign without feeling queasy. And no, I don't ever intend to eat at a Wendy's restaurant again.)
Also I don't like the loss of color availability in this blog. It cramps my style. It offends my fashion sense. It makes me -- crazed.