Oh, did I tell you I’m writing a book? I can see where that may have slipped my mind. I seem to always have some sort of writing project in mind. I can’t tell you how many manuscripts have I’ve started and flailed about with, finally backing myself into an unresolvable corner, which allows me to bid that story a fond “fuck you.”
This time, I don’t want to do that.
This time, I would like to do something truly ground-breaking… finish something I start. That would be wonderful.
But even with a project that excites me and makes me look forward to the writing process, there is nothing more daunting than that blank screen. The terrible void of the Word.doc.
It isn’t like blogging. Blogging is a wonderful thing, but it is top of the head stuff. Off the cuff. Extemporaneous writing. You can roll psychedelic stream of conciousness bullshit in a blog and nobody cares. It’s different with books.
Maybe this is my actual introduction to the book. My way of easing into it the way one eases into that tub of Jell-O to wrestle a buxom blonde in front of strangers for the first time. The bar is full of screaming tourists, most of them Japanese, and they just want the show, the goddamned show, and they will throw the money, single bills flying into the Jell-O and into your eyes, blinding you with ink and sugar and greed and Asian ass-smell… Christ, it’s terrifying! And the glamazon you’re fighting? Helga, Ilsa, Elke… some fantastic Aryan beast with nipples as hard as hammers and the upper body strength of a roadie for Slayer. What were you getting into, thinking this was a good idea? Jell-O wrestling?
Writing a book?
This is nuts.
So I think I’ll do it this time. Every Thursday can be my writing day. And whether it’s a page or a paragraph, I will get something done on this book. And eventually, I’ll finish it.
Then you can read it. Then you’ll find out what it’s about. Then I can cross that one off the list.