Then there are other things we can analyze.

Ink or computer?

There is a scratching beauty to ink - Sharpie pens are scratchy like a pencil and makes a person feel like they are inking their way to immortality.   Then looking down at pages of work and realizing - I DID THAT. 

It is easier to pen.   "pen the story"   When I do play around with writing, such as this little blog thing I pretend to do, it is easier to pen things down first,   Once I put the pen down and the ink does its bleeding thing, there is a rhythm to things.  Only when I put pen to paper do the words really flow, but I fear to lift my pen in case the words suddenly stop

When I type it, it is too easy to pause, to reflect for a moment on words I have written and stop writing  I think, but thinking means the writing has stopped.  The pen is almost easier to control, at least in terms of word count.

I will not claim that muse has visited me in those moments when the pen scratches across the page, but at least she looked my way,  She shook her head, maybe flipped me off, but SHE LOOKED.  The fear now, when the pen is in full gush, that the knock comes on the door, the text message buzzes away, a voice calls from another room.  These things all break the spell (as the cliche says).

As long as the pen stays on paper, the words will come.  Random, often meaningless, but they are words, and oh how those words give you something to stare at after an hour and feel like something was done.

So why don't I write?  Well, when I look back and the words a couple of days later, I realize there may have been a lot of feathers, but not much chicken (yup, I ended with a Kim Mitchell reference).  

Not ending, just stopping

It is tough to remember that not every story ends.  Sometimes they just stop.  It is like that because that is real life.  

It is very hard to convince myself of that when I write.   But most stories seem to end with "he looked and realized..."   or "he stared at the taillights as they disappeared and wondered what would be next."  Lame examples, but that is not my purpose to end some made up story.  If I could end it better, I would be on an island right now writing rather than sitting on a floor blogging. 

But back to the premise - things don't end.  Your friendships don't really end.  Unless there was a big throw down fight, it did not just end.   No, it was a gradual death that has no real context to it.   Perhaps a promise to see each other soon, and as literary cliche would say, sooner became later.   The calls may have become more infrequent, perhaps from guilt...

But it did not really end.

Just stopped.

Like most stories. 

I have to stop trying to come up with endings, just "stoppings"...

A Hushed Commentary on the Blog

So, if nothing else, starting this blog has reminded me of humility. 

Suppose they gave a war and nobody came?  That is my blog.

But is has only been a week you who calls your blog the Dodgy Prawn.  What a dumb name.  (Unless you got it from a short film and the character that said it in an English accent made it sound fantastic...)  Well of course it has only been a week. 

So what next?

This blog would not exist if I had not already considered the possibility that I would not have several hundred followers and dedicated readers at this point.   Well, yeah it would.  That was a total canard.

But now on to the meat of the blog post.

Writers are pretentious.  They cannot help it.   Unless they are going for the Emily Dickinson approach and may have no intentions on ever being read, almost every writer is wanting material to be read by others.

"Read what I have to say, for I am wise."
"Read, for I have lived through something and want to share my story with you." 
"Read, for no one can turn a phrase quite like this one."

Now hold on imaginary readers.   You might think, I AM NOT PRETENTIOUS AT ALL.  You may be right.  I may not believe you though.

It is what a real writer is.   And here we have exhibit JJ3B4 in our display - why this fellow that has the Dodgy Prawn blog is not a writer.   I use the excuse - too well - that I do not want to take the time to yell my name out at the masses to say "Hey Facebook friends, check out my blog"... cannot do it.  

Besides, do I really offer anything of value besides provide a written litany of excuses why I do not write?  Exactly.  Read on my imaginary readers, there is more to come!

Why I did not write last Sunday. Besides, it was Mother's Day.

Rewinding in time to a day that was... yesterday...


So why did I not write today?  Well, I woke up late.  Tired.   And a body needs its sleep, so I was only thinking of getting enough sleep to be a healthy and productive human being.

Well, then its morning, and to wake up a shower is needed.  Might be too sluggish otherwise.

Then had to spend some time with those that are held near and dear.

Have to take people out to lunch, on other days, cook that lunch myself.

Yards need mowed.  My own.  My neighbor's yard.

Dinner needs to be found, and devoured.

And more time to be spend with family.

I am getting a bit chubby, so exercise really did happen.  I walked two miles.  Had to shower when I got home, then spend more quality time with those that are still held near and dear.

It's Mad Men night, is it so wrong to enjoy a moment of relaxation after going all day?

And now it is late, and would it not be better to get a good night's sleep to make sure I am extra productive tomorrow?

Yes it would.

So no writing done today.  But man, am I ever going to make up for it tomorrow.   I am going to write at least two chapters of something (I bet). 




(As a post script, the above is a bit of a lie.  I wrote a bad poem.   Then I did this.   Which is also writing.  So my blog is the epitome of hypocrisy in a way.   Not fully.  I sure did not write much.  And if no one reads it, did I still write it?  Post script ends.)

The Infinite Monkey Theorem

The idea is... a monkey on a keyboard, if given enough time, will eventually type out the works of Shakespeare.   Well, that is a simplified concept of the idea anyway.  So my thought is, how do I become that monkey?

Effort will get the job done of course, but I don't really just want to hit the keyboard long enough to just retype Shakespeare.   So just hitting random keys for a possible eternity is not really my end goal, though if immortality is an option and I get breaks in my typing time then PERHAPS I will put it on my list of possible "future me" scenarios. 

Now, as I am going to explain often as I play with this blogging thing, I am not complaining.  I am actually playing around with reasons why I don't write, and while playing I am actually knocking out some writing.  There is no need to point out that if I just write I will write.   I am surely quite aware of that.   I know.   This is just how I will occupy my time and get playing with the process. That is a lot of playing references right there.

Truth be told, I actually have quite a bit written, I just don't take it any further and I probably should, even if only to be told it is awful and perhaps get a better idea on what I need to work on.   I make no claim that the stuff I write is brilliant, it is brilliant only in that it has been written.

This blog should help guide my focus a bit, as well as serve to mock myself for the many nights I do not write and feel that shame for it.  Silly me.

Eulogy For a Pen

As a not-writer, I cannot help but to feel a sense of romanticism for a pen that has been used so much the ink has disappeared, leaving a trail of glorious words behind.  Of course, the speck in me that has pretensions of literary spinning tells me to drop the idea into metaphor, and rather than use the idea of simply writing and the pen using ink and running out, oh no, we must "bleed" a pen dry of ink.

For a writer, surely there is something absolutely magical about using a pen so much it has run out of ink.  It means you did your job, even if you did not do it well.  Scribbling and coating a page in blotches does not count.  That is more pen-suicidal and not really helpful.  Even the pen is saddened at that kind of death.  Not much purpose in that death.   Give it a grand exit, with spilling like Paris' blood all over the Capulet tomb.  

 Sometimes my thoughts of writing slow, and I blame the pen; is it straining against the digging of its own grave?  I have made the pen aware of its own mortality and it pulls against the page sometimes.  It knows each word I bleed from it brings it that much closer to death.  Surely that is the reason why my words falter every time I try to put them to paper.  The cost in ink-blood is just too much.

So the silence of the pen is really only self-preservation, terrified it might be putting more blood and life essence on to a page than I do.  I shake my head, disappointed that I have made the pen aware of itself.   I almost feel guilty, reminded of the story of the pig and its commitment to making breakfast.  My success relies too much upon the death of the pen (and killing a metaphor as well).  The pen is my pig I guess, doomed to death if I am successful in putting ideas to paper.

No wonder it holds back on me and leaves my best words unsaid.  I have them in my head, and I marvel at the ideas that spin around in my brain sometimes.   But when I pick up the pen, it refuses to write and convinces me instead to try other tasks.  Too often, I listen.  Often, it hides from me, diving under a table and perhaps hoping the Muse will leave me before I get it in hand.  "Ah, here it is," I murmur, but by then the words have passed on to someone else.  I am left holding a pen in hand that has been granted yet another stay of execution.

What if I die before this pen?   Or what if we are connected, that with my words bleeding upon the page, we both pass on, and the pen is the only thing tying me to "this mortal coil"?  What if it is my guardian angel of a sort, and I am not realizing the service it does me when it allows me to say nothing.

Ah, all the things I wonder as I put pen to paper and pretend to write.  

The Shame of (not) Being a Writer

I once wrote ten pages in the lobby of a hotel I was not staying at.   I looked like I belonged there, so I did belong, and I wrote ten pages.

At that moment, I knew what it was to be a writer.  I had it all figured out.   "Sit back down where you belong" Lady Gaga once sort of said, though her song indicated high heels, and I was not about to bust those out.   But outside of the heels, sit right down and get writing,  Let the words flow and see what comes of things.  And I did.  Ten glorious pages of writing.  Certainly not great stuff, I did not write the next average novel, nor a poem that will get seventeen likes on Facebook.   But I wrote.

I went to bed that evening (not in that lobby) and as I said, I knew what it was to be a writer.  At that moment, I wondered what I would accomplish tomorrow now that I have the secret in my hands?   Armed with that knowledge I had some trouble closing the eyes.   I had the answer.  Ten pages of answer were right across the bed from me.

When I woke up the next morning, I was still feeling the rush of the previous eve and stared over at my beautiful pages, all ten of them.   Imagine if I actually sat down to write like this each day?  What magic could be cast upon the page then?  So that day passed as days tend to do, and that night I sat down to write.  

I had a good second night, bashing out five pages.  Not quality stuff at all.  Indeed, I will have to say it was bad even by bad standards.  I was reluctant to lift my pen for fear of losing my words, so any words that came to mind were dropped down on the page.   Bashing out five pages was quite literally meant.  Very few of them blended together very well, but I still knocked out five pages and that is nothing to be ashamed of.

On night three, I did not write.  I was tired.   But I was averaging five pages a day even with a break in there, so I had nothing to head my head over.  The next day was also a resting day, but I was still averaging over three pages a day.  And a moment later (metaphorically) two weeks had passed and now those ten pages were a measure of shame for me.

And I know that feeling of shame all too well.  I know the dangers of not writing yet I seem to be a master of it.   Stephen King wrote "On Writing".  I fear my book may be "On Not Writing".

What I could do if I did not make so many excuses?

We shall try to find out in the blogger's dangerous days - the slow days of summer.  

An Opening Monologue

Why do most blogs fail?   We start them knowing, or at least hoping, our words will inspire, will lift the spirits of our readers and bring our own spirit out to soar as well.

But then life happens.

And staring at the screen and hoping the words will just fall out of us.  It does not happen like that.

No, it certainly does not.

Yet we begin the blog anyway and see what comes of it.   Glorious beginnings.

And so, it begins...