I can't write. I'm stuck. I'm shit. I am the proverbial artist that is pounding his head against the piano keyboard trying to jar loose the genus that is stuck between my ears but the only thing that is coming out is blueberry jam. Why blueberry? Because it's my favorite.
From the countless emails and comments I've been getting from friends and family and people I don't even know, this is becoming a problem that is affecting more than just me. People come up to to me and start small conversations but it usually leads to them saying "Man, you are a great speller."
After that, they ask what is going on with the blog. Where is the new stories? Where is my daily chuckle? Surly Little Hoss has wreaked havoc on something while my son continues to refuse to be potty trained. They ask these questions in small little hushed whispers, like they are saying "Look Hoss, I heard you got cancer. I'm sorry. You ok?" Like it's some big secret.
Then we'll talk about it a little more and sooner or later they'll let me know that the stuff I've written recently is worse than not writing anything at all. Again, in hushed whispers. It's tough telling someone that they suck so I sympathize with them and wonder myself what the hell has happened.
But I think I know and I think I'm going to work it out tonight.
I talked to some of my dad friends about this problem because after two months, even I have become concerned and I don't worry about anything. We threw out ideas of how to rectify this, how to overcome this mental road block to the stories that used to flow so easily. There were a lot of suggestions.
One was that I should go and run with the bulls. But I'm fat and slow and I'm sure I would get gored so that was out. Another was that I pay someone to pretend that he's me and make up shit on the spot. I considered that one for a while.
Papa Scrum suggested that I take it slow and small and just do the Friday Five's again. Then he made me do yard work.
But finally, another dad friend had a good idea. He said that a lot of famous old timer writers, that now have furniture collections named after them, would lock themselves away and get plastered. They would drink and force themselves to write until they overcame the great beast and tea bagged him on the chin.
This is an idea I could get behind and this is what I am going to attempt to do tonight.
The problem isn't the stories or the ideas, they are there. There's a ton of them. I keep a little notebook near me so I can write them down. But when I sit to write the stories, they die a horrible unheroic death near the third paragraph. I don't know why, but they do. I stop and look at what I wrote and I laugh. Then I have no idea where to go from there. The beast has stomped my brains to mush. And so the story remains unwritten, the adventure untold and it writhes in pain like a little tadpole without water.
Tonight it ends. Tonight I break through. I have put the kids to bed and have vowed to ignore them for the rest of the night. I don't care if they start a fire, I'm getting this done. Hossmom is setup with total crap chickflick TV, she's good. I threw meat at the dogs and told them to watch the house.
I have a case of Corona and a can of chew. I am going to write all the stories in my notebook even if it takes 12 hours. I am going to meet the beast head on and tell him to suck my balls. These stories are getting out. One way or another, they are coming. They may be crap, they may be awesome. One thing is for sure, there will be tons of misspelled words. Think I can't spell sober? Wait until I get into beer number 6. But they are going to come out, one way or another.
I know the problem. I'm an emotional writer. If something is on my mind, I can't think of anything else and so there is a bottleneck. Until I unclog it, nothing is going to happen.
Tonight I unclog it. At the very least, it should be a fun ride. Well, for me anyway because I'm drinking. This might suck for you guys.