Stutter

Throw in two parts writer's block, one part laziness, a spinkling of self-doubt and a garnish of mind-numbing apathy, and you get the wilted house salad of sit-on-your-ass-ism that I've been suffering for the last two weeks. Well, that and really bad metaphors. I have some of the major points of the novel plotted out, but the last time I went to that special word document that is my manuscript, the words poured out with nary a trickle. Hell, that's crap imagery too because "poured out" implies that there was more than a trickle. Sigh. Maybe I need to up my caffeine intake.

I'm trying to finish the paperback edition of Dave Egger's novel, You Shall Know Our Velocity!. I have to admit, the guy can write. His phrases are crisp and simple, yet descriptive. But after I put the book down, I have to wonder why I think the writing is good -- yeah the writing is crisp and simple, but also rambling and random. There are several times I think, "Yeah, so what" when I'm reading this. But I keep reading and reading.

Anyway, for shits and giggles, here's Marty Stark imitating Dave Eggers:

I was sitting upstairs in the loft. The fan was on the floor pushing hot air around my calves. I was thinking about writing. Actually, I was thinking less about writing, and more about the lack of writing. I haven't been able to write in the last two weeks. I sit in front of the computer with my coffee and feel guilty about not writing. I sit and sweat drinking coffee in the summer heat with no air conditioning. I sit and let my cat crawl onto my lap, hear her sigh as she falls asleep. She doesn't move because I don't move. I don't move because I'm not writing. I just sit and sweat with a distant cousin of a panther dozing on my lap. Sometimes, I hear the chainsaw roar of lawnmowers as immigrant gardeners do their weekly trimming. I know lawnmowers aren't chainsaws, but that's what they sound like.

Because I'm not writing, I'm just sitting and sweating in front of a blank screen, I let my mind wander. I think about what those gardeners would think if about that gringo two floors above them that has it easy, that just sits there up in his loft, sitting there and sweating and not having to work in long sleeves under the sun. (If I could do footnotes in Blogger, there'd be a footnote next to gringo. The footnote would read "Well, I'm not a gringo, but I don't know the derogatory Mexican term for Asian. Chinquo maybe?").

-Yo Chinquo, why aren't you doing real work?

-I did real work. I was a lawyer. I hated it.

-Ah, lawyer, accidente, that is bad work. But it is work. Look at me. I work in long sleeves on this hot day, and the pollen and the grass, they make my eye water. Yet I still work. It is the way of the world. You must work too.

-But I'm trying to work. I'm trying to write a book.

-Book? That is not real work. And anyway, it looks like you're not writing at all. It looks like you're just sitting there sweating, drinking coffee with a sleeping gato on your lap.

-Don't you think I wish a torrent of words would come to me? Don't you think I wish words like spawning salmon would rush through me onto paper? Anyway, leave me alone. I feel bad enough already about sitting and sweating and not writing.

-Alright, amigo, I will continue back to my mowing and getting grass in my eyes and leave you to your sitting and sweating. Just think about what I said about real work. It is the way of the world.

Eventually, the chainsaw sound stops. My coffee turns cold. And I haven't done any writing again for yet another afternoon.

Chili cheese burritos are good.