Thursday, November 20


Your opening sentence will usually suck. After several careful rephrasings and scrapped intros, you will most likely discard everything written thus far; the general idea of your attempted communiqué spat upon the page in a kind of chaotic, homicidal scrawl. From this murderous birthing emerges your first (semi) coherent paragraph; the words themselves having calmed down enough after the traumatic initial escape from your brain.

Back at the station, they describe in detail to authorities the methodical way in which you stalked each of them through the dank passageways of your cerebellum. How, once caught, they were confined and structured within your dungeon of contemplation; one weighed against the other as you played God with their formless lives. The lucky ones died there, struck from potential existence at the whim of your uncaring brain. The others weren’t so fortunate. Shunted along tremors in your steely arms, they found themselves suddenly birthed into this terrible reality, their twisted forms scrawled into being by your merciless pen. Consigned to a physical existence, they explain, you left them there to suffer on this cheap piece of parchment; a testament to your cruel designs.

Having finished, the witness (a timid, lower case “e”) accepts another cup of coffee with trembling hands. He will never speak again. Others huddle in the corner, clutching themselves tightly as they curse their needless inclusion in this travesty.
“Why?” they whisper, “why does one commit such an act upon helpless words?”

“His blog” one of the officers says, wearily. “He needed an opening to his blog.”

No one moves. An empty Styrofoam cup falls to the ground.


Rising, the officer says, “He didn’t mean to revise so many of you, but it’s been a little while. He wanted to get it down on paper before… well…”

Aghast, the victims can only stare as he walks to a simple, unassuming door across the room marked “Post” and places his hand on its flawless, ivory knob.

“Do you know how hard it is to start from scratch?” he asks before opening the door wide, flooding the room with blinding light and deafening noise. Over their manic screams and the torrent of broadband sucking them into a digital purgatory, he shouts “If some of you could arrange yourselves into a title for him on the way out, that would be great.”


There is a theme in this, believe it or not. Writing is hard? Yes. But as you can see, there are other, more grandiose ways to state something so trivial.

Instead of: “Finding a topic is the most difficult part of the creative process.”

One could write: “Sheltered within the warrens of your labyrinthine consciousness, thoughts and ideas find respite from your roving, mental eye. They must be found. Hunt their frail forms until, wracked by fatigue, they collapse; prostate before your terrible will. In this way, their bodies can then be consigned to the stained sheet before you.”

But no, seriously, I want you to understand what you’re getting into if you bookmark this. Apart from tirades equating the writing process to a kind of linguistic homicide, expect to find other, less dramatic, odds and ends posted on this site. We might discuss movies one day and games the next. You might get to read about how I went for a walk and found the experience pleasant. Also? Food.

I think you and I are going to have fun.


T said...

I'm glad you're my brother-in-law.

Dan said...

Again, again!