Writing and Work and Stuff
I had an unusually hard night at work tonight. I mean, Tuesdays are always busy as fuck because of the lobster special-but, we had the crowd for that, plus a big party booked. I don’t know if grueling is the right word, but it’s the first one that comes to mind.
So as usual I’m down there working and trying to get shit done, while also trying to think about what the fuck I’m going to write about at my blog tonight. This always happens up until about six o’clock when it starts getting busy and my blogging mind just shuts down to go on dishwasher mode. And I don’t mean I have a meditative “Zen” experience. There is not one fucking Zen thing about washing dishes, fetching supplies and prepping food in a restaurant. Anybody who tries to tell you they’ve found inner peace while busting suds is full of shit or trying to sell you dishwashing detergent. Probably both.
But before the massacre started and shit began to get way hairy in the dishpit-I came up with the idea that I’d write about writing. Because, despite my protestations to the contrary, somehow people have the quaint idea that since I write so much I might be a writer. Really, I’m not. I don’t even play a good one on my blog. However, it seemed like something to write about.
Thing is, for me-to write about writing would be like touching myself in front of a mirror. It’s just kind of selfy. I mean, given-there’s people who do it, and do it well (the writing about writing thing, I have no interest in what people do in the mirror really), but they’re usually people who do it professionally and/or who can do it really, really fucking well. I mean, there’s just that sort of unwritten, unspoken rule that says unless you’ve written a real, as in paper and ink, book or five..then you really aren’t qualified to pontificate on the creative process. Of course, once you have written a bunch of books or whatever then you can write about it all you want. Or you can stand in a mirror holding your body of work or whatever flips your twinkie. Cause after all, you wrote some fucking books. And I mean that in all earnestness. I mean, fuck, I can barely hold something in my swiss cheesed brain past 600 words.
Motherfuckers that write full on books worth of words deserve all the respect and acclaim they get-or most of the time don’t get. Nobody, when asked what they’re going to do on a Friday night replies “Party like a star writer.” Kids don’t read Jorge Luis Borges and then air-type fantasy labyrinthine tales on an imaginary Underwood. Well, at least I didn’t. I picked up a bass guitar and tried my hand at playing the punk rock in too many marginally unlistenable bands for over a decade. When I failed as a musician, then I began to write publicly. Funny thing, more people liked my ‘zine and like my blog than ever liked the gawdawful racket I made playing music. However, it was at least theoretically possible-to me at least-that I would “meet lots of girls” and have all sorts of people thinking I was a bitchen dude via looking surly and playing bass poorly. This type of thing never occurred to me with writing, and still doesn’t. But, the road to popular fame, or infamy even is more traveled by the bard then the scribe. Ironically, it’s the words of Darby Crash I find fitting to describe the work of the scribe: What we do is secret.
And it is. Even if doing it is nowhere near as hard as running 600 plates through a dishwashing machine and hand washing 300 pots and pans. Because lets face it-language is really an alchemists art. Words transmute concrete reality into abstracted symbols once again made real in the mind. When you make words, you make magic. Kind of like Bob Ross did with painting. And you can’t front on Bob Ross.
But don’t get this fucked up. I’m not sitting here saying I’m on some Gandalf shit with my writing. Not anymore than you are every time you make words. It’s a secret, but one nobody can tell you. Not me, not anybody with a writing blog, not any author, published on paper or otherwise. The only way you’ll ever know, the only way you’ll ever find out the secret is to just fucking write. It’ll come to you. And if it doesn’t, write about that too. Just keep hammering away. 600 or 60,000 words, whatever it takes.
And grammar? Fuck grammar. There I said it. I’ll say it again: Fuck grammar. Eventually you’ll figure that shit out and you won’t even have to know what the fuck a gerund is. By the way, what is a fucking gerund?
But if you’re one of those people who like the idea of being a writer more than you like writing then you’ll never know. You’ll never really pull the fucking rabbit out of the hat. Why anyone would fancy being a writer but not like to write is beyond me. That’s like wanting to drink like Jim Morrison but not writing fucked up poetry. I hear it happens though, the wanna-be a writer but not liking writing thing. Scroobius Pip said it so it has to be true. You can’t front on him, or Bob Ross.
So there. I wrote about writing. I hope I didn’t sound like a total fuckwit. I’m not claiming I’m a writer, and I’m not getting a big head thinking I know some shit now that a bunch of people have read my blog and a number of them told me I can write. It’s so totally not that. I’m trying to tell you-you can write. Just fucking go at it with all you’ve got. Or not. After all dish washing may not be the path to enlightenment, but I’m pretty sure slack is. Most importantly really-just have fun. Cause shit like work is a drag sometimes, and what’s really magical about wordmonkeying is that the creative process can just make a motherfucker feel better.
Oh fuk. I think I just gave up the secret.