<%@ Language=VBScript %> <%response.buffer = TRUE%> Thoughts on Writer's Block, the State of the World, Writing Fiction, Finances, & Why My Parents Will Never Understand Me!
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Thoughts on Writer's Block, the State of the World, Writing Fiction, Finances, & Why My Parents Will Never Understand Me!

Sip that Diet Coke there Jock-O, this is my time to spill some shit. Okay, this whole idea of writer's block is hogwash, there ain't no such thing, there is boredom and I got it, boredom to the hundredth, to the thousandth too… Well, you get the picture, and I ain't making excuses for it, what the hell do we expect with all this crap going on in the world and with all these people trying to be what I am.

by Craig A. Platt

February.1st.2004

Holy attitude Batman, well there is a good place to start, with Batman. I am the man who read Batman as a kid, the comic reflecting the glorious sun every morning on my night stand, this is the way I learned that there is a story to tell. All these people who think artists are cool are duped, how the hell do you become good at something if you are cool and going out all the time, all bunkum. Rock and Roll ain't poetry, there are poets who make rock and roll, but every rock and roller ain't a poet, so stop calling all these people artists, they're performers, like monkeys and elephants, working for bananas and peanuts. You think it's money I want, fame, a place in the annals of history, forget all that, I want to survive doing this, this thing I am doing right now, sweating in a hot room over the typer and then heading out and forgetting everything that exists for hours at a time.

So writer's block my ass, you're just not a writer, you don't love words, you need a story, not me––I just needs these bright shining letters forming monosyllabic words and spilling endless while I try to find some sort of truth.

The world is the reason we have boredom right now, why should there be anything else when here in America we are trying to annihilate culture. Forget it all, you American History Buffs, our once great Nation has a monkey in office who likes Ozzy Osbourne, ah hell. Why does everything American have to be great, we are in an abusive relationship with ourselves, nothing is perfect, we're not always right, where the hell did we get that idea? Are we bullies? Maybe, but I don't think that is the case either, we are just misguided, like the dorky kid in school who brings a shotgun in and kills all his friends and enemies, that's what we appear to be. We are a product of our own lifestyles, what I wouldn't do to be a fly on the wall and watch it unfold knowing that it has nothing to do with me.

But when it does have something to do with me and I am completely powerless to do anything about it, it makes this whole silent revolution (or devolution) that much worse, worse worse worse. Ah hell, I am not heading out to the local town square and protesting like some Patchouli smelling hippy from the 1960s nah, not me. I am writing a verse here, a prose poem, an essay––a something, we need some sort of change, something to make this place better. I am not calling for revolution, but maybe a break from this worship of celebrity and cool. The people who actually get stuff done are the ones who sit in their rooms and read.

Writer's block, there is fiction there, and I still don't believe in it. I am talking good fiction, Malcolm Lowry fiction, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and big papa Ernie Hemingway, those classically educated maestros of words, the guys who knew a little bit 'bout everything, not about the top ten albums to make you want to give a chick a Cleveland Steamer, not this Eggers crap, not this postmodern goop that is ruining all the young minds. They don't want to be writers they want to be corporations, am I ruining my writing career right now?

Hey boys, unleash the hounds, let's have a fire for warmth. I think of travels I have not made and weave it into fiction, of some lonely girl who needs a little jibbing and she's telling me what I should write about, all the while I know I am gonna write about her. I am thinking of gems, waves, oceans, and deserts, a ford Bronco rolling down towards Baja with four drunkards all hoping to get laid in a place where there will be no women. That is Fiction, Irony, Allegory and Metaphor.

Fiction is how you want the world to be, how I want the world to be, how everything was, never will be, and is. I am rambling on about it, but that's what it is and why I can't find someone who wants to pay me to do this, to live this out, give me a grant, put me on a pension, make me a landmark, something to stare at, or just get rid of me by giving me the chance, to shut me up and let me make stuff up again, all the falsities, all the fictions, all the times drifting, put me under a rock, on an island, with a reefy break and a Timex that doesn't work, but why you won't, they won't, anybody wouldn't is beyond me.

I am heading out the door right now to scream poems at homeless guys, pomes, pooms, all these things are fictions of life and the acknowledgement that even if I were to die right this very moment there would be a litany of my words in the hearts of the one reader who took the time to understand or misunderstand anything I have put down.

And my folks, well I love 'em to death and they love me to death and they want me to make the big buckaroos, the big ones, the three car garage the king-size bed, the whole rigmarole, I want a hut, a wave to surf, a box to play some music on and endless books (library) within driving distance. I want foreign lands and languages, I want to be mugged, beat up, stripped of my dignity, and spilled out of a cab on the main strip of some strange city dead drunk. I want it all, all of it, but the Mondays, the Tuesdays, and so on. I swear to god that if I end up that person who walks into the office everyday and counts myself down till Friday I will jump off the bridge naked and fly away with my own wings, my ears sealed shut to the whistles of the worlds.

My folks, love 'em to death, but success to me are emails from readers saying, we loved it, we understand, you opened our eyes, right on, keep going, you suck you fucking idiot get a job, What the hell were you talking about? I am the music, the harmony, the melody, the dream, and the fall from grace. I am gracelessness, I am ballet, I am an opera and a great book all wrapped up. So you go out and be cool, memorize the radio and the TV, I'll sit here with my writer's block and read endless pages, write gibberish and dream of a day when someone understands me.

There it is, this whole splatter of paint, this whole drenching of words, the idea, the ideal, the moon the sun the alpha and the omega, now forget it all, not this but all of it and go down there and dream a little. I am locking myself in and writing a novel, a big one, an endless one, about something instead of all this nothing, a novel with heroes and villains and dreams and roads and manifest destiny, with a god and a devil and a heaven and a hell. The whole bit. A big pickup truck roaring across I-10 until it all makes sense again.



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