Well, I thought I would sit down and try to write a humorous parody of the hard boiled detective stories of Robert
Leslie Bellem, filled with all sorts of over the top tough guyisms, such as "I stuck out in that crowd like spats at an
Iowa picnic". After writing a few similes, all which sounded about as contrived as a Bush plea for peace and
understanding among nations, I thought, "fuck it all", and decided to explore the "process" of writing.
Let's look at the word "process". You can undergo the process of hair transplanting, which involves having about
a thousand injections into your head with a hollow needle. This, I think describes the writing process rather
nicely. I read once that Rod Serling, as able and talented writer who ever lived, described the process of writing a
novel as " intellectual agony". Joseph Heller spent almost twenty years laboring over phrases like "was that a
look?" while trying to finish "Something Happened". I'm just a guy sitting in front of a computer screen who
doesn't even do this for a living an I can tell you, if I could put together three sentences that made me happy it
would feel like being on the receiving end of either an epiphany or a blow job, albeit one delivered by a really
articulate girl. I attended a homicide and suspicious death training seminar years ago and the instructor
described a guy who wrapped one end of a logging chain around his genitalia, the other around the gear shift of
a VW Beetle and started the car up, trying for some type of sexual gratification. Unfortunately, the car slipped
into gear and dragged him to his death. After my experience with the "process" I sometimes wonder if the guy,
rather than having an unnatural attraction to manual transmissions, might have been as aspiring writer.
After all that, you might wonder, if I feel that way, why try to write? I guess it's because I spend so much time in
my own head, thinking things that I can't say or creating a more satisfying alternative to my personal reality.
Maybe it's just a way to try and clear my head so that I have room for the reality that is necessary to survive the
"process" of life itself. Maybe it's a less guilt ridden alternative to on-line porn, I don't know. What I do know is
this, what you have just read is the most I have been able to write since I started trying to write. Considering the
content my feelings of intellectual inadequacy, failure and frustration, I think I now know how Woody Allen did it all
those years. Will I continue? I don't know. Unless a good sneeze comes along to clear my head, I think I might.
Adventures in the
Creative Process
or, As I like to Call It;
Fuck it all
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