I have to say, I haven’t really missed writing at all in the numerous, many times I have not done so.
I especially haven’t missed it since I began tuning out the siren song muses of false promise, the hot voices of all prompt and no payoff.
It’s not that I really or truly hate writing. It’s just…I really have a kind of better time without it. (Similarly, I don’t hate the notion of drinking the recommended eight glasses of water per month. I just a lot of times prefer not to.)
This, despite the fact that I actually kind of think I may have my ten thousand Gladwellian hours logged-in of doing so, writing sentences, that is (if you include cocktail sessions on bev naps). And that, some might say, accounts for something.
Yet, anymore, everyone who can type is a writer. Everyone’s an author. Or a photographer. A maestro. A film maker. Everyone’s an artist. And all are sublime. All uttered and written words and echoing visions and voices now issue forth from Mount Sinai, every instant of every moment of every instant a masterpiece. Everyone, everything, is amazing!!!
(A toast: To the long lost underachieving, underwhelming cultures of the Mediocricy!)
So. Writers. Books. The sacrosanct Om of the written word. – They don’t need me rooting for ‘em anymore.
Besides, I have long come to prefer just talking stories out (often to the point of into the ground), whether it be talking to myself or toward whomever is sitting beside me in the passenger seat or on a bar stool…And, I have seemed always to have my say.
Well, this recent Yom Kippur, I offered some reflection. Perhaps enough with the talk. Maybe I have had my fill of say. Could it be that silence beckons. (As in, ‘Just shut the fuck-up, Chewy!’)
Along that time, I encountered an Eastern notion along the lines of: ‘If you seek to be a poet, divorce yourself from ambition’.
So, in embracing that silence, perhaps it has come time to write, with no purpose, no expectation, other than creating a daily Zen sand garden. As a mere exercise.
This, of course, calls for a little regimen and ritual. Silently speaking to the cursor. Typing letters and words and sentences and shit just for the sake of doing so. Completing thoughts and paragraphs. And doing so every day for however long – Making it become part of the daily blessing (read: bullshit) of routine, in the process hopefully fending off the hourly horror of human ennui. Become a sessions writer, a solitary Wrecking Crew. Spin 300-500, 500-515 words per play. Do so through the final two months of the calendar year. A composition calisthenic. A nice chore. (And who doesn’t love the word ‘chores’?)
Maybe it’s time to do that…But let’s not pretend it to be any more than it is. It’s an exercise in vanity and futility. And that’s about it. Hate sex at best. A daily grudge fuck. – Here’s to giving this a try.
Okay, mouth. What do you want to talk about?
The Larry King USA Today Tribute Band
Might as well begin by being inspired by the best, the great masters of the craft, the language, the ministry. Hence, the eminent scribe Larry King comes to mind, whose pearls graced the USA Today Lifestyles section once a week for a time since Guggenheim was in short pants. So here is an exercise for today. A Larry King Grapevine tribute.
How About Those Everything!
The beginning of standard time really is…What’s not to like about the Houston Astros?…Donna Brazile’s new book looks like some read…I don’t know how long it’s been since I had a good macadamia nut…Whatever happened to Marathon Bars?…When I was a kid growing up in Brooklyn…It’s nice to see young kids riding tandem bicycles…Donald Trump sure stirs things up…The world isn’t the same without the Mutual Radio Network…Sandy Koufax…You have to feel sorry for pumpkins after Halloween…How about that Jennifer Aniston…Kevin Spacey, who would have seen that coming?…Say what you want, but Beyonce makes things more interesting…Oregano sprinkled on a slice of pizza creates a whole new dimension…Hyannis Port on an autumn Saturday night…Am eagerly awaiting Tom Clancy’s new book…Can’t get enough of Andy Williams and Perry Como television specials…Cher really holds her own…Love grapefruit, don’t enjoy grapefruit juice…Chief of Staff John Kelly sure has a lot on his plate…An egg cream at Katz’s deli…Jackie Gleason certainly was…Is there anyone who doesn’t look better in a toupee?…Ken Burns’ new 22-hour PBS doc, “Tomato”, about the 10,000 years of the fruition, already has tongues wagging…Outside of in three or four martinis, not a fan of olives…I still like my Lucky Strikes…My good friend Dutch Reagan…What is it about frozen yogurt?…Are the young people still wearing cardigans and getting jiggy?…Can’t wait for the James Cameron Spiro Agnew bio pic…Say what you’d like, but basketball has never recovered from the George Mikan retirement…We’re having dinner at Duke Ziebert’s every morning right after Open Phone America. Stop by and say hello.
My Two Cents | A Poem Culled Entirely from Larry King’s July 3, 1994 USA Today Column
By Sam Johnson and Chris Marcil
MKW | 7 sessions. 1 h 30m per. Very poor.