Five months, to be exact. Almost half a friggin' year, and with nary a peep out of me. See, this is what I'm talking about with the damned writer's block.
[....] <<< Look at this spot right here. I just now sat here staring at that same spot for a good ten minutes or more, with that glazed, empty, slack-jawed look, as though somebody had shot my frontal lobe full of novocaine or forced me to watch three straight hours of Glenn Beck. (But I repeat myself.)
Maybe I'm going about this all wrong. I keep waiting for some sort of inspiration to come along so I'll have something worthwhile to write about. And when I say "inspiration", I don't mean any of that bland, pre-digested, pastel-colored pap that you see on notecards and bumper stickers at your local New Age and/or Religious Supplies emporium, nor do I mean the sort of fiery, poetic, bolt-from-the-blue, history-altering creative erection that we hear about in songs, poems, or LSD war stories. No, when I say I'm waiting for inspiration, I don't mean anything more profound than simply a random goofy-ass thought with which I can entertain myself as long as I'm able to keep spewing words about it.
This is what I seem to spend an inordinate amount of my keyboard flight hours waiting for, and what I've experienced less and less often over the past few years. And since it's clearly not working, the only real solution is to try and dream up another approach altogether. If all I'm writing is chunk after piece after snippet of laughably uninspired, mind-starvingly clichéd horseshit, then maybe the solution is to just dive straight into the swamp, dare to completely and utterly suck, crank out all the empty, self-indulgent dreck that my mind seems hell bent on hobbling me with in the first place, post it all up here, and just hope to eventually come out the other side of it with something at least mildly interesting to say.
In short, it's time for me to get the shitties out of my system.
Yeah, it'll all probably end up being glorified Facebook status posts and warmed-over socio-political observations that wouldn't so much as ruffle the labia of the most vacuous, Zima-swilling suburbanite hausfrau. But it's either that or double down on my daily gherkin-jerkin' schedule. So, y'know, what the hell.
