WHAT ARE YOU WRITING?
Begin:
What ARE YOU WRITING!!!???
Them: “First of all, We need to know what you’ve been doing. You’re a big liar, so don’t bullshit us!”
Me: “What do you mean? I’ve been writing?”
Them: “That was two questions.”
Me: “Well, yeah. What do you expect?”
Them: “We expect an answer to our initial question. We repeat: What have you been doing?”
Me: “Well, I could say it’s none of your business. Or, I could say you look funny in your millennial clothes. Or, I could ignore you all and not let you know what the hell I’ve been doing. However, what is the second thing you want to know?”
Them: “What do you mean?”
Me: “You said ‘first of all,’ if I’m not mistaken.”
Them: “Oh. Yeah. BUT YOU STILL HAVEN’T ANSWERED OUR FIRST QUESTION!”
Me: “Jesus fuckin Christ – stop yelling!”
Them: “We have a right to know. We as the #WritingCommunity on Twitter DEMAND ANSWERS of all following lackeys! We’re supposed to be a ‘tight-knit’ community of like-minded #writers, soothing each other into a false sense of non-writer’s block excitement and super #writing accomplishments, so as to bolster each of us toward the ‘powers-that-be’ and ‘gate-keepers’ of traditional publishing.”
Me: “Now who’s lying? You know you can self-publish. You know you can flash-fiction. You know you can create whatever you want to get your words out there, now that the Internet is in control of world powers of writing industries you’re a subset of.
It even controls the new designs and methodologies of Ancient Publishing Castles! AND, there’s not much anyone can do about it. Your only hope – ‘OBI-WON-KENOBI’ – is to hope you’re read by a William Randolph Hearst wannabee, making it in the Trad-Pub field and hope they’ll puff you like Billy Graham, to grand-slam you to super-stardom on the NYTimes best seller’s list!”
Them: “Now wait a cotton-picking minute. You’re deflecting like Trump. You’re starting a war that may destroy everything we’ve as an electronic #writingcommunity have fought for, up until this minute. AND, you still haven’t answered our initial question. You are right though, the #writingcommunity demands an answer.”
Me: “I object to that racist remark about cotton and picking.”
Them: “OH – YOU’RE SO FRUSTRATING! WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN WRITING!!!!”
Me: “OK, ok. Calm down. I’ll let you know. But you really didn’t ask that specific question.”
Them: “Finally. Thank you.”
Me: “Writing?”
Them: “FUCKIN CHRIST!”
Me: “Now, now. Such language. You asked.”
Them: “THAT WAS A QUESTION!”
Me: “Yes it was. You see, I’m not sure. I can’t be writing if I think I have writer’s block. And, I can’t be thinking I have writer’s block if I’m writing this. And, it’s hard to define ‘Writer’s-Block.’ Have you ever really thought about it long and hard? Have you ever really wondered if maybe it’s all about life getting in the way? I think I’ve had ‘Life-Block’ nagging me for all of my 68 years on this blue orb in space – about my writing.
For instance, back in 1956-7 I had my first open-heart surgery and experienced the worst physical pain a child could ever deal with. I suffered almost dying through suffocation after, in post-op, by contracting pneumonia. It lead to a severe slow grade-school education embroiled in a PTSD, envied and rivaled by Vietnam Vets. However, I did get published while in 3rd grade.
I’m not sure why that teacher put me in command of the whole class and its public writing adventure, but she must have seen fit to make me the ‘recording secretary’ in the hierarchy of PS 29’s Class 3-2. I will state for the record – the whole class edited my work. It’s where I learned nothing you write is your own – once you write it, it gets mashed by everyone. That’s ok. A writer has to learn that. We’re not alone on this earth.
Them: “Goddamn. You’re deflecting again.”
Me: “And then my sophomore high-school English teacher told me I had something. She was a leading teacher in expository writing. Apparently, she couldn’t figure out how anyone living in Northwood, New Hampshire could be a class A circumlocution writer.”
Them: “Now what the fuck are you talking about?”
Me: “Exactly. And, well, by the time I graduated bottom of my class in high-school, the last thing I wanted to do was write or even go to college. I couldn’t spall. And I thanked the gods on mount Olympus I was 4-F.
My ticket out of Vietnam.”
Them: “So, are you saying you are writing or not? And if so, what about our second question?”
Me: “I’ve stated in the near past, I’m dealing with a fictional book in the Crime-Drama/Sci-Fi genre and also writing a memoir.”
Them: “Finally! An answer!”
Me: “Not much of an answer is it?”
Them: “Well, at least is was something.”
Me: “So, that’s it? That’s all you want to know?”
Them: “Tell us more about ‘Life-Block’ getting in the way and why you’re not published since 3rd grade.”
Me: “Most of its none of your business. Or, you could just use the Internet to find out all the Fake news about me. There’s a gold mine of ridiculous information about me written by AKA dudes that faked their way onto the Internet since the beginning of the Internet. But, I digress.”
Them: “When did you start your memoir?”
Me: “About 19 years ago.”
Them: “Is it done?”
Me: “No. I’m still alive and I only got up to the 7th grade.”
Them: “Have you ever queried?”
Me: “Yes.”
Them: “To who? When?”
Me: “Bantam Books. The publisher wrote a nice note and gave feed-back. I was shocked. But ‘life-block’ got in the way again.”
Them: “What happened?”
Me: “Got married, had to work and had seven kids before I realized why that was happening.”
Them: “So, you’re a horny dude?”
Me: “Um. Thank you. Now you’re digressing.”
Them: “So, you never went to college?”
Me: “I dropped out in 1972. But not before my Creative-Writing Professor told me outside class that I should write. I didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, after seeing nothing but red marks on all my essays. I thought it had to do with my extensive use of marijuana. {and maybe his} Thus, I went on to make money in NYC.”
Them: “In writing?”
Me: “Fuck no. There’s no money in it. Shooting for Trad-Pub is the lottery. I made big money in construction.”
Them: “So why are you writing now? Why are you writing a memoir? Why are you writing a Sci-Fi/Crime drama novel?”
Me: “Wow. Three questions. You take redundancy to great heights.
It takes the ‘Life-Block’ pain away that kept me from writing and helps me annoy people that need to be annoyed.”
Them: “Hmmm… We sure know about being annoyed by you.”
Me: “Thank you.”
Them: “Fucking Christ.”
Me: “Yeah. I know. It’s fun, isn’t it?”
Them:
“Explain about the memoir. Why would anyone *without* a public persona, think they could ever get a memoir Trad-Pub-ed? ”
Me:
“Well, that’s what most people assume, so I’ll ask you this: Why would constantly reading about the 1% and their narcissistic accomplishments, suspect achievements and legal un-ethical greed – written by people from the same ilk – provide anything with defining interests in the world that may detail the poor, wackos, homelessness and social deviant outcasts?
The latter lives are just as interesting, if not more. – Especially if you look at atheists. They know more than anything in the universe religious ‘Fundies’ could ever fathom.”
Them:
“Fundies? ”
Me:
“Right-wing religious Funda-Mentalists.”
Them:
“So now we’re headed for a religious war in a memoir? ”
Me:
“One needs to realize we are in that war as we speak. Consider the growing rebellion in this country. It’s all based on ‘exvangelicals’ taking the bull by the horn and throwing shit back, at the likes of Roberston, his lackeys, Graham fools and all the other people supporting ‘Donny the Tramp’ and their four year quest for enacting ‘self-fulfilling prophecies’ they’ve been trying to get to fruition, since the 1980s – base on the biggest fictional book ever written: The Bible.”
Them:
“Wow. That’s some statement. So your memoir will expose the hypocritical and intense sub-conspiracies enacted by the government and right-wing religions since the end of WWII?”
Me:
“Maybe. But I’m more inclined to feed the 8th grade reading levels of the general population with mind boggling exploits of an exasperated grade school developed – hippie – and a horny teenager, with nothing but sex on his mind since the age of seven.”
Them:
“Interesting.”
Me:
“See. You took the bait. Possible ‘Click-Bait’.”
Them:
“Wait a minute! What the fuck do you mean?”
Me:
“I rest my case.”
Them:
“We think you should move on to the novel you’re writing and give us some details. Share with us all about it.”
Me:
“That, my friends… can I call you friends? …is something I cannot talk or write about until it is finished. I can’t discuss one iota about the work. I’m under a gag order from my psychiatrists.
Yes. I have more than one. I always like getting three quotes on all my projects.”
Them:
“So they’ve beta read all your work so far?”
Me:
“No fucking way. Fuck them. They’re all insane too.”
Them:
“So you’re saying you’re insane?”
Me:
“Of course. Why would I be talking or writing about this if I wasn’t?”
Them:
“Holy Fucking Shit. Who knew?!”
Me:
“I hear a tone.”
Them:
“So. Where do we go from here?”
Me:
“You can go fuck yourself.”
Them:
“Is this some ‘dystopian’ revelatory exercise in mental break-down or what?”
Me:
“I love you.”
Them:
“Holy shit. You ARE fucking insane.”
Me:
“We aim to please the masses under constant government control. The proletariat are massively insecure. Remember that, and remember to instill fear at every opportunity. FEAR BREEDS CONSUMPTION!”
Them:
“So. You’re saying you’re insane and instilling fear into the #WritingCommunity in order to increase sales of all their recent publications? Self-Pubbed or not?”
Me:
“I think you’re getting a little too personal now. Stop it. But Shit – look at what has happened to toilet paper these days.”
Them:
“Hey – whatever floats your boat.”
Me:
“I can’t swim.”
Them:
“We going to send the police to your house.”
Me:
“What for?”
Them:
“You’ve been smoking something and it is illegal.”
Me:
“How do you know that? Maybe I know what the hell you’ve been doing since this discourse started yesterday. And, anyway – I left New Hampshire and it’s legal here in Maine. AND, I’ve hacked your phones, TV, computers and your thermostats inside your house, since you’ve been so enthralled with this writing. I know everything you’ve been doing since last night. It is US, that are coming, to GET YOU!”
Them:
“___”
Me:
“HELLO?”
Them:
“___”
Me:
“SPEAK TO ME. WRITE SOMETHING!”
Them:
“___”
Me:
“GOD DAMN YOU BASTIDS!”
Them:
“___”
Me:
“I want you all to know that the Moon is infected with bad blue cheese.”
Them:
“___”
Me:
“I also want to let you know there are rats and snakes in your basements, cellars and hidden compartments in your walls, creeping around and looking through peep holes, wherever they can find, or chew them open. Good luck.”
Them:
“___”
Me:
“Ok. So now were playing the game where my audience doesn’t respond or criticize or even follow me anymore. Typical. THE TRUTH HURTS.”
Them:
“___”
Me:
“THE END IS NEAR.”
Them:
“___”
Me:
“ALLNESS IS NOT ACCEPTABLE.”
Them:
“___”
Me:
“TWIGGY WAS TRANS-GENDERED!”
Them:
“___”
Me:
“BOX TOYS ARE JUST THAT – BOX TOYS.”
Them:
“___”
Me:
“@joycemaynard gave J.D. Salinger blow jobs.”
Them:
“NOW WAIT A MINUTE! HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT?”
Me:
“I read her memoir books. I know how to read.”
Them:
“You’re disgusting.”
Me:
“Life is life. It’s all about not being subjugated.”
Them:
“We’ll having nothing more to do with you.”
Me:
“Yes you will. I am omnipotent.”
Them:
“You are insane.”
Me:
“Thank you. And goodbye.”
Them:
“Wait. You were right. She did blow him.”
Me:
“___”
Them:
“We were wrong. Please come back.”
Me:
“___”
Them:
“Hello? COME BACK – WE DID!”
Me:
“___”
Them:
“What is this? Tit for tat?”
Me:
“___”
Them:
“FINE!”
~~~
Welcome to Stories Of Ole O.
