Yawl wanna know what? I'm sure ya don't. Or if ya do, it's just because you're wasted and have nothing else to do but read the batherings of an idiot. Yawl wanna know what? Yes? Well...
I'm about to... I'm tired. My family notices and so do my friends. I like to write. Some say I do it well. My cousin Karen even says that it's my calling. I know it is; however, it ain't calling cash to my door.
I ain't got the time. I ain't got 3 to 5 uninterpreted hours a day to sit down and tap away at a story, to struggle with an worded idea, to be alone and free with my thoughts. I ain't got the time to wander around to places in my head. I ain't got the time to poise my skinny fingers above qwerty keys and plop my low fat ass down when an urge, a thought, or an inspiration breaks and flashes.
Who comes up to me as says they care? Who encourages me to find a private space and stroke my word organ? Who says to me that they understand? Who listens as I rant about the nagging words and ideas inside me? No one. No one. Who takes my hand and whispers hope and support in my ear? Who? Who? Screw it. My writing ain't important to anyone anyhow. Who's gonna ask me why I just said that?
I need outward voices to counteract the inner negative. The inner negative? Yah, ya know the things inside me that tell me stuff like: it ain't worth it, no one wants to hear your words, no one wants to hear about your life, your words are good but aint' that good, no one will publish them, and (my personal favorite) you're poor and need to work on something that'll for sure make ya money--this writing thing ain't gonna do it. The inner negative many times overwhelms me. It jib-jabs, thrish-thrashes, swooosh-crashes, and drags me into its swirling undertow. It's waves rip at my my dangling fingers and severs the lines which pass words from one frizzled creative synapse to the other. It drags me under and bounces my head against submerged regrets and self doubt. It washes over me pieces of gnarled funked up downer words.
Yer words are shit. Good shit but still shit.
Folks ain't wanting to read crap. It be ignorant.
Ya tend to twine good words into a yarn of crap.
Take yer tard yarn 'bout a sperm. No one wants to read a gross detailed tale about a sperm caught in a condom. Ain't no one wants to read some metaphoric crap about writers block.
Mr. C., way back in 1993, said that it's was good but nonpunishable-too a vulgar. He'd know. He's a professor.
And what about The Fag. Come on now the title is a turn off. It be ignorant and offensive. Who wants to read a story with that name. Even if'n it's a story 'bout a red neck walkin' his dog and meetin' his first homo. Shhhit, as the teach told ya, good but too edgy. No one'll wanna read that shit. No one wants to read a redneck speaking redneck and using the word fag like he's eating chips. Duh.
You dropped it cuze the teach wasn't your style. Idiot, she might've taught you somethin'.
The inner negative takes hold. Thrash. Downer words. Scrap. Self doubt. Bump. Regret. Glug. Splish. Splash. Glug, glug, glug. Gasp. Thrash. I'm done. Another piece written. Gasp. Spit. Bits of debris cling to me. I can breathe. The inner negative hasn't beat me. Someone will read this word spree. I'm tired. 4 hours has past. Yippee.
