Aardvark

Dudeosaurus Rex

King of the Awesome Lizards

Thick, hard and brutal. I love the abuse. Hurt me, people. Demean me, belittle me, insult me. But do it with love. Any cruel serious attempts at undermining my psyche will be met in kind. Also, any that are excessively uncreative or boring will be met with napalm

25

Organ Pirate, Musical

Critical accepted

Critical accepted

http://

I'm interested in figuring out a way to write again. For almost five years now, I've been unable to put pen to paper and create something I'm satisfied with. It's almost like passing a kidney stone, writing of late. Hideously painful and the only satisfaction with the resulting product is that it's finally over with.

Once upon a time, the ideas flowed freely from my head. I was able to create a story in an instant. An alternate reality that could span several centuries would come to me in a moment, in full detail. All it took was some fast finger work and viola, another scrap of literature thrown onto the great flaming refuse heap of the internet. Fortunately, they would, for the most part, land on the unburnt parts of the internet (LotWR stage circa 2001-2002 notwithstanding).

So here I sit, unable to even piece together the fragments of language required to properly describe my inability to write. Seriously, look at that last goddamn line. Fragments of language? That's garbage! Utter trash! Honestly, the whole thing should be expunged from the internet. Obliterated! The slate wiped clean. Hell, just get rid of the slate altogether. Get a brand new slate and some new crayons for said slate. Yes, I know you don't write on slate with crayons, but we're going back to fundamentals here, people.

So here we are. You, reading this, wondering what possessed you to even think about reading this and me, lamenting writers block. Did I use lamenting previously? That's another problem I had. Repetition. Yes, it was effective the first time. Yes, it was a charactorial trait, once upon a time. Yes, it got the bloody point across. But sweet unholy jesus, could I have possibly thought up something a little less crude?

I'd go so far, upon reflection, to say that I was never able to write in the first place. This isn't a case of writer's block. This is my subconscious preventing my thoughts from reaching paper out of sheer embarrassment. Those primitive parts of my brain saw what the higher brain was pumping out and conspired to put a stop to it, lest my immortal soul be dragged down into that hell of bad writers, along with Frank Herbert's bastard son and Kevin Jerkface Anderson.

So where does that leave you, the hapless reader? Well, you have the means and obviously the excess time to go back and see what all this was about. Somewhere on this page should be a "Read the back catalogue of this wanker's pontification" button. Go hit that, read it and tell me what you think. Is it really worth me attempting to tear down this creative barrier I've built around myself? Or is my subconscious right? Am I little more than a hack, best buried and forgotten, lest future generations develop brain tumours from exposure?

Go on, I'll wait here with the radaway and the brain surgery kit.