Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Writer's Block Bloggin'

Blogging has its advantages for those who think their
friends are endlessly fascinated by the most intimate
details of their cat's personal life, or trips up to their
cottage on the weekend, where they spend entire Saturday
afternoons crocheting portraits of the Yorkshire terrier.

For those of us who don't lick ashtrays for a living and
aspire to a slightly higher level of blogging, when writer's
block hits, it gets noticed like a stripper at Mormon wedding
reception. (no disrespect to my man, Mitt Romney, or the
great state of Utah).

If you blog enough, eventually, people start checking your
site on a regular basis, and if your cheeseburgers are
starting to look like they've been under the heat
lamp too long, they'll go someplace else faster than you
can say "oh my god that was the most inane analogy I've
ever read".

For those of you who don't write, let me try and make the only obvious comparison
that my short circuited brain can make. Let's say a fellow hits a certain age where
he has the desire but no longer the means. Our fine gentleman wants to love his
wife in that special way that men love their wives, but can't, because his helium balloon
seems to be in a constant state of deflation. Now, he has the desire, the romantic intentions,
and even bought the roses and champagne, but he just can't get lift off. It's a little like
what Shakespeare said about love and alcohol; "it provokes the desire, but takes away
the means".

That's what writer's block is like. I feel a little like Jack Nicholson in the final scene
in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, when chief strangles him with the pillow. My literary
arms and legs are flailing wildly, but, there's nothing there. My brain is fried.

Of course, back in my drinking days, I could always count on a cold 12 pack to get
the pistons firing and the rust out of the cogs. This was a brilliant solution until I
caught Hemingway syndrome, and turned into a full fledged alcoholic.

For those of you who don't know me, I'm an alcoholic - yes, the kind that goes to
meetings. I haven't drank in 33 months, almost 3 years. It's no small coincidence
that many of the great ones suffered the same affliction. Sadly, they paid a hefty price
for the literary fluency that alcohol provides. Alcoholism is like sitting on the front
porch on a perfect spring evening. There's a light breeze, you have the perfect book in
your lap, and you wish you could freeze frame the moment and stay there forever because
you've never felt more peaceful and free. Being sober is learning to live without ever going
on the patio again, and avoid staring at it from the kitchen window for too long.

Hope this post satiates you rabid jackals for a few days, after all. We do have to get
to the bottom of that treacherous Hillary Clinton and her first quarter fund raising numbers.
37 Million?




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