It’s kind of my jam…

Oh, hey there… is it that time again already? Sonovabi… I mean, hey!  Come on in, pull up a chair. Not that one, I just cleaned cat barf off of it and it won’t be antiseptic until the dog licks the upholstery like it was the last lollipop on earth. Here, how about I move this pile of books so you can sit closer. So what brings you by again? Oh its Thursday already… I mean didn’t I just? Nevermind. Let’s get right down to business. What’s that? Yes I know, ‘too late’ sigh…

So being an author, I write things. You will notice I don’t say “I like to write things” because, to be honest, I don’t always ‘like’ to write. Sometimes it sucks. No sometimes the product sucks too, you see. I know that. But what a lot of people don’t get is that the process often sucks. For instance, I have been writing a master’s thesis for oh, I don’t know, about the last five years or so. I can’t go about town without bumping into somebody who immediately wants to know the status of said thesis, and at this point I feel like saying, “Look, we both know that my thesis isn’t finished because if it was I’d be hanging naked from that flagpole over there singing random stanza’s from the musical ‘Springtime for Hitler’ so why don’t we just keep the small talk moving onto the problem of hyperinflation during the Weimar republic?” Let’s face it, I hate the process of thesis writing so much that I invented a fictitious authorial voice that looks and sounds EXACTLY like me, just so I could write blog posts about how much I hate the writing process instead of working my sorry ass through a chapter that discusses Delaney and Barthes proclivity for neologisms in the service of critical theory! (Ed Note: it has already been noted by management that there is an argument to be made that said non-existent entity, heretofore referred to as ‘author’ has spent just as much time NOT writing this blog as he has NOT writing his non-existent thesis – save the stamps and letters for your congressional representatives kids.) What I am trying to say is that writing can be a miserable, gut-wrenching, depressing, lonely, disheartening vocation, eff the cowboys… Mother’s don’t let yer babies grow up to be writers… Take the words of the immortal Charles Bukowski to heart

"don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it."

(from ‘so you want to be a writer’)

So why do it?

The short answer is I don’t know, it’s just kind of my jam…

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