It was 1997, I'd been writing for about 9 years. Confident I would enjoy the fruits of my labors. At first it was only a twinge of discomfort. The words were not arranged as I thought I'd arranged them. They lay stillborn on the page, dead on arrival. With each word the twinge of discomfort morphed into an irritating, burning sensation. I decided some wine would douse the flame before it got out of hand. Oddly, the alcohol fueled the fire already fanned by vapid winds conjured by my own words. Flames swirled inside the cauldron sitting on my shoulders. Each word added to my disappointment, turning to anger. I longed for the calming, simplistic beauty of the blank page. To my dismay I had continued to fill pages with lifeless words. I had moved to a ghetto and lived in an inefficient efficiency three years prior, hoping to gain "perspective" for my writing. I had witnessed a new world, as strange as Man's first step on our Moon to a person from an idyllic bubble world. A world devoid of hope, alive with anger and resentment. I was, at best, depressed. This new "perspective" was elusive. I hadn't written anything new in three years, just puttered along on old stories. I wondered if my depression had killed my writing or had it been dead all along? I continued to read my mediocre magnum opus, the rain hammering the roof, growing ever more disappointed and ever more angry at the laughs dancing through the flames in my head. Through my bloodshot eyes my words turned to embers, floating harmlessly to the ground. I remembered the wine and the rain as I washed the blood from my hand. The wine was not the fuel, the words were the fuel. The glass in the frame I punched was the cause for the blood trickling down the sink to the drain. In a moment of lucidity, I wrapped my hand in a towel and went to work maniacally detaching cords from the computer. Eyes glazed over with rage, hand wrapped in a towel, I marched the computer down the steps (as though leading a murderer to the gallows, then unceremoniously dumping their bodies in a mass grave). The dumpster/mass grave soon contained the monitor, keyboard and printer... all complicit in the offensive writing I had just read. The flames in my cauldron burnt bright. Three years in the ghetto had finally given me the perspective I so desperately sought. The vast wasteland I had created was clear. The crimes against originality, the complete disregard for creativity or humanitarian work in search of the habitat of the elusive and endangered Original Voice was my fault. I had created worlds devoid of creativity, originality... life. What I failed to notice was the flicker of originality that fueled this blitzkrieg on my own words. The perspective I had so desperately desired, the original voice I set-out to find, was dispatching the old words as though they were mediocre infidels in world of literate super heroes. I am not naive enough to set myself up as the Lord Judge and Jury. I am, however, the Lord Almighty of the worlds I create. Confident that I've imbued my children with life and passion. I was a false god, I forgot to bring my worlds to life, in my hurry for completion. My words were no more than dead-eyed zombies glaring back at me. Mocking the typing I mistook for the work of writing. Worlds devoid of original thought or creativity... Genesis Not. In this apocalyptic flood of disappointment, in worlds of my own creation, there were no survivors. Noah drown. The rapture came and went. A year passed. Computer gone, just post-it notes everywhere. I had to write notes, they let me sleep. Racing-brain does not allow me to sleep. 450 square feet covered in post-it notes, my hovel runneth over with notes. At the end of The Usual Suspects they glance around the room and realize they've been played. I was played. The new voice, the new script was there. I dreamed it. I saw the movie (in bits and pieces over a year). I bought a new computer and wrote more words (My apologies to the world). ~~~ We are all on a selfish journey, we all think ourselves better and more deserving. This excerpt was part of my journey and I wouldn't change a thing. Originality, creativity... striving to be the best you can be, art in general, is to be commended. Civilization is a world created for the betterment of Man. Through the cracks we find things to amaze. Civilization gives us the time for artists to thrive. If Leonardo da Vinci was a hunter/gatherer he'd have no time for art or science or discovery. I've mellowed. If life seems jolly rotten, There's something you've forgotten... Whistle Now... Thank you Monty Python buy unique gifts at Zazzle |
  
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