I Almost Wrote About Writing, But Then I Guess I Didn’t Really

So I was thinking that I really want to write. Not this usual bullshit that I crap out in an hour, read over once, then post on the interweb for no one to see. But instead delve into a topic, research it, take my time on sentences and paragraphs, and get a feel for a flow, and write something meaningful and thought provoking. Then while pissing five minutes ago I realized that’s a lot of work, and I said, ‘fuck it, how am I supposed to give that much of an effort when I’m halfway through this piss and already want to quit?’

I’ve been reading lately – most recently Bill Simmons’s The Book of Basketball, which is great so far – and when I read I always do one thing: masturbate. Okay, not really, or at least not often – those damn romance novels are so sexually intense. When I read I always think about writing. I by far think about writing more when reading then when actually writing. Sometimes when reading I’ll stop and diagnose a sentence to determine how it could be improved to sound better, or how the author went about making it sound so fucking magnificent. I never do any of that while I write though. My editing sounds something like this,

“Hmm, this sentence about the fox sounds a little odd. I better read over it again. The quick brown fox…oh fuck this, I can’t read this shit. I’ll just post this and pray to Allah that I made as few mistakes as possible.”

As you may have noticed I write about foxes a lot. Okay, that’s a blatant lie. The insider scoop behind that sentence is that I stole the ‘quick brown fox’ line from an episode of Stella where the three guys try to become writers. I don’t know why but that line has always stuck with me. What’s even worse is that even though that line has always stuck with me, if I had to bet if that line actually appeared in that episode, or any episode of Stella for that matter, I wouldn’t make that bet – I have a bad habit of misquoting TV shows. But either way I recite that line in my head multiple times a week for no good reason at all.

I’ve always been poor at editing my own work. Possibly because it’s such crap that it pains me to read over it and try to figure out the impossible way of how to make it appealing to the senses, not just one sense, but multiple senses – I want my writing to smell good. I often wonder – no I don’t, I’ve only wondered this once, and it was just now – if some writers read over their work and marvel at the masterpiece that is their syntax. Like Stephen King sits with an early manuscript of his new novel rereading over a part where he describes how a girl gets her head chopped off with a katana by an Australian zombie and he has his hands in his pants just vigorously jerking it with the thought that that sentence alone will bring him more millions of dollars. I don’t think that’s too farfetched of a thought.

I realized I do the same thing with comedy. As I once contemplated the idea of stand up comedy, I’ve always been obsessed with jokes. The combined hours I’ve spent trying to figure out how other people’s jokes could be better, or why they’re good, are numerous. Yet the combined hours I’ve spent working on my own jokes is the same as the amount of time I’ve spent laughing at Dane Cook’s jokes, i.e. zero hours and zero minutes (I thought you liked Dane Cook now?) As a person sure, but I still don’t think his stand up is funny. The point is I think this is why my life is a failure (you mean up to this point it’s a failure) no, I like to think positive; I think I can be the youngest person to ever have officially failed life. Even Hitler made it to 25 before God declared him a failure. I spend so much of my time thinking about other people’s work and never think about how to improve my own stuff. This is why I think I should be a critic. Actually I don’t think I should be a critic, but I’ve been told multiple times before that I should be one. I would not like to be one though. Critiquing a person’s work, especially when they’ve poured their heart and soul into it, can be very unfun at times. I mean I’m a mean person and I hate everything and everyone, but I would never tell them how much I hate them and their stupid face, because I’m nice like that (insert smiley face here).

I want to give more of an effort into my writing. I know it’s too much to ask for my writing to have any meaning (way too much to ask) but it’d be nice if a few people could get some enjoyment out of it (that’s like when a girl form the inner city asks Santa Claus for a pony; not gonna happen) or at least maybe some people will get some laughs while reading (keep lowering those hopes) one person gets one laugh (still too high) a chuckle (keep going) one person at one point almost cracks an ironic smile (there we go).

I want to enact the Bill Simmons writing rule that I heard Teresa Strasser speak of. Just write as much as possible knowing that most of it won’t end up in the final draft anyway. Just get all the ideas out there and then when done sift through it keeping the good and turning the bad into a shitty blog about how my writing sucks.


Chris and I discuss things like teen sex and sibling differences after Chris makes some inappropriate (but still funny) jokes.



About Danniel

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