What does it say about my life, when a human can enter the “sentence”; ‘mirror picture doesn’t realize poop in t’ and be directed to my words?
Writing may not have been the wisest choice.
I’ve never believed in the concept of having writer’s block. It’s merely an excuse to be lazy. That’s all it is. Being a ‘creative’ enables ‘creatives’ to ‘create’ (wait, didn’t need to put that in quotations), create a secure, impenetrable world around that thing they sometimes do and seldom get paid for. So as a writer, you can get up late, watch Sky News for 4 hours, drink copious cups of coffee and take multitudinous dumps, as we all know that the toilet is the best place to achieve greatness.
Flux capacitor inventor:
The indefatigable truth about being a writer with writer’s block, is that it’s unrelentingly depressing. Calling yourself a writer on a good day is soul crushingly sad. You gear yourself up to sort out a script, or finish 3000 words of your novel about a Dog called Karl that shits gold and runs in the Olympics because it has a more human face than Sarah Jessica Parker but finishes 4th but then shits out its own gold medal and then tries to eat it and chokes and dies because IT’S A DOG. YOU’RE WRITING ABOUT A DOG THAT SHITS GOLD, YOU UTTER MONKEY-SWEAT-PISSING-SHIT-WEASEL.
Nah, good luck with your book about the gold shitting dog. I’d read it. Will there be sex in it? Will there be a strong female character? Will there be resolutions and redemptions and reversals and and and all the things that a book/script/haiku should have? Will it have a snappy title? Will it have a nice cover design? Will it be adaptable for a movie? Will there be vampires and magic? Will you change every word I tell you? Will you…
Go get a job in a factory.
Factory life becomes more appealing by the day. You punch in at 8, cuppa tea and a biccie at 10, lunch at 1 and speeding out of the car park at 5.01, home in time for Neighbors, which you’re entitled to watch guilt free because you’ve done a hard days work and people can see it on your hands and there’s dirt on your face and you’ve got a proper pay cheque at the end of the week, with NI and tax deducted and everything. You’re now free to go to the pub and drink a fuck ton of pints and shoot pool and talk too loud and make inappropriate remarks about ugly women and… be free to live your life as the drunkest person ever… only at the weekend of course.
If you’re really lucky, you might never have a mid-life crisis. You may never suffer a death bed revelation. You might not pray forgiveness for not becoming a conceptual artist and making ideas for art installations that would probably make the world a better place, if the world was a better place, i.e. the way that you wish the world to be, which you aren’t completely certain of yourself, but you know there wouldn’t be any pikies and chavs and neds and spides and steeks and stovos clogging up the joint, and KFC would be made from real chicken and people would eat with their mouths closed and cats wouldn’t shed their hair and your teeth wouldn’t rot and your shits would be delicious and smell like Anabelle Croft’s handkerchief.
I’m writing a film treatment at the moment. I’ve been writing said treatment – on and off – for about 5 months now. I’ve still not finished it. In that time I’ve played nearly 100 games on Lexulous – poor man’s Facebook Scrabble, for the uninitiated – losing nearly all of them. My perspicacity has not improved but my ability to steal pompous words such as ‘perspicacity’ has improved tenfold, thanks to repeats of The Simpsons, when Lisa uses such words as ‘perspicacity’.
Cartoons have taught me everything I know.