2005-01-11 - 9:51 a.m.

This used to be so much easier. Remember a few months ago when it seemed like I was updating almost everyday? Gosh... Now I can barely string two sentences together in a single day. Mostly I just put up stupid blog quizzes on my LJ page. You know, stuff that I am too embarrassed to put up here where all of my good buddies will see them. Now there is just this big gaping hole.

I used to write little things in my notebook where I write down all of my expenditures. Just little things that irritated me and I'd make a note like "Blog about fake parmesan cheese" or "dland entry regarding the neighbors rabid spider monkey (at least I hope it's rabies!)" and stuff like that. Now I've become totally uncreative. Once in a blue moon I'll post something funny like this or this, but mostly it's just meanderings like this or total randomness like this.

So, I'm feeling kind of dried up right now, unlike southern California. Man, talk about rain...

Remember how it used to be? I'd come up with some hateful angry rant and you all would tell me how I should win the Pulitzer but then they'd give it to some hack professional writer whose feet I would not be qualified to kiss? And I'd spin some self-deluding fantasy about how wonderful life would be when I am finally recognized as the genius I really am and I get tons of telegrams and phone calls and emails affirming my greatness and not to mention people naming their children after me and sending my big cash donations to support my illustrious career and agents banging on my door demanding the rights to republish all this junk I post on the internet.

But I would go to far! I would forget the little people. My writing would become obscenely pedantic and obfuscated. My three volume novel about why the chicken crossed the road would be seen as self-involved trash useful only for bludgeoning intruders and improvising performance art pieces. In fact, it will be seen as so infuriatingly obscure that even multimedia installation artists will poke fun at me and see my oeuvre as pretentious trash that no one can bother to understand.

And I'll berate the press because my work is so simple. It just requires an open mind. But no, you can't take the time to give an artist a real chance.

Around then I'll become bitter and withdraw from public life. I'll buy a cottage on the Cape where I will live in a very ambiguous relationship with my housekeeper but I'll always maintain that it was always purely professional. I'll give up writing and devote my time to ASCII art and scrimshaw and writing letters to the editor of the New York Times in the form of sestinas. They will not be published during my lifetime but a posthumous version will be published thirty years after my death by a distant cousin's nephew who will use his accidental discovery of those manuscripts as a spring board for his own career which involves writing filler for Playboy and picking up strippers.

Ah... the dream lives on...

Anyway, I sent off my latest story to my writers group. I have no idea what they will think. I was re-reading it the other day and the opening is very funny. Too bad it's not a humor piece...


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