Turns out, I’ve nailed myself to an obligatory wheel, insofar as I have committed myself to writing every single day for the first year.
Yesterday was a confluence of many cool things. One was the Victor Wooten clinic in San Rafael, Ca, yesterday. The other was an encouraging phone call from someone I did not expect to receive a call from. At all.
Today, I feel like someone has shoved a fermenting gym sock into the middle of my head with a broom handle. Maybe it’s because I drove eight hours. Maybe it was all the preemptive Red Bull front-loading I did, since my proclivity to plow into the Grand Narcoleptic Sea while behind the wheel is so imminent. And maybe I have a brain tumor the size of a midwestern grain silo.
Not sure if I can drag out the micrometer, and T-square to define whether or not a chasm exists between what I’m describing, and the pedestrian trauma of writer’s block. But I do know this: I’m certainly not suffering a dearth of commonplace angst, unoriginal gripes, cliched carping and boilerplate caterwauling about not really having anything to say.
But as far as the subject of NotHaving Anything To Say–I guess now I’ve proven that, at least to that end, I do have something to say.
I have a tremendous facility for the vacuous. The inane. The banal. Even in the horrid delirium tremens of writer’s block, I can at least lay in a traumatized fetal position, excoriating my epiglottis with intolerable bellicosities–all in the name of some literary void. Sort of an anti-detox. Give me something to supplant nothing.
Tomorrow, I plan to address something about which I heard another blogger jest:
I have it. Bad.