Not Possible

Something’s going wrong. Incredibly wrong. I can’t think of one snarky, cranky, bitchy, pissy thing to say about the writing life today. Must be that writing’s going good? No. It’s going like shit. I’m away from my desk. I just moved. I just read over a bunch of material I’ve written recently and have decided the binary code on which it’s stored should be vaporized. And what else? Most books still stuck. There’s about no hope in the world for a writer like me, with a mentality and sensibility like mine, to publish anything of significance, in book form, on a national scale, and expect anybody to read it. And, um, fuckin-A, you should hand me a goddam diaper bag, people, because I’m totally filling my Jockey shorts with self-pity here today. But still – or but fuck – I’m a happy camper.

To make things worse, I know the reason why I’m a happy camper, and somehow I can’t manage to choke my happiness back into the sort of old-fashioned piston-fisted beat-off session at which professional whiners like me excel. So the reason I’m happy? I’ve been hanging out with a bunch of writers since Thursday, and despite how much I have been dreading the prospect and despite how much of my freetime I spend stewing over things like the horrors of university-professor/writer types, well, shit, it turns out I’m a writer; these people I’ve been hanging around with are writers; and we’ve got lots in common; and we’re having lots of fun!

I’m gonna puke pretty soon.

So I’ll stop with the mush.

Stay tuned for a new animation tomorrow.