Woe Be Unto Thee, Dear Writer

One of the bad things about being forced to be a writer (if it's in you, it's not like you have much of a choice) is that you often can't just sit down and work on that special short story whenever you want to. A professional occupation, just to pay the bills, is especially destructive. A writer's creative energies are finite. If you have a job that requires creativity, then woe be unto thee that hast come home stressed, tired, depressed, and just wanting to work on thy story.

I started a story the other day based on a conversation I had with someone I'd become good friends with when I worked at a factory in town. His life is almost stranger than fiction and I really wanted to tell this story (fictionalized with my own twisted spin on things, of course). Sitting down in front of the Underwood, I realized I was dry. All I could come up with is what you're reading now.

It's not that I mind spending time with you wonderful folks, but let's be honest: this isn't helping me get my story done. Blogging does have its advantages. You can actually write something when you're too scared, instead of staring at a very quiet typewriter or a blinking cursor. But I hate to use this as a crutch. I don't want to blog just because I'm too tired or too scared or too pissed off to do anything else. That's not good for either of us. You shouldn't have to put up with crap and I should be enjoying the fruits of creative productivity.

Right now, though, I'll just shut the lid on the old Underwood, eat some dinner, drink a few beers and relax. The muse will probably waylay me right about bedtime. Then I'll be hellbent on making use of the few minutes a day I can rope that philly in.