Thursday, February 27, 2014
Where Are The Bee Gees When You Need Them?
I hate it when my blog post pool is empty. When all those half-baked ideas have been turned into novelty soufflés and every last sketch, note and doodle has undergone mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and been transformed into articles favourited by gazillions.
So right now, I’m stuck with Vladimir Putin.
As I threw on a dressing gown and slippers and made my way the study, his was the only image rolling round in my brain. I tried to shove him from the cliff face of my cerebellum for fear that I might make some obscene joke and offend die-hard KGB men the world over, thus sealing my fate as a human being, let alone a writer.
But the wily baldster wouldn’t budge.
He tucked the heel of his back foot into one of my least used sulci and crouched, frog-like, in his Judo suit, muttering, “where in hell can I buy me some proper pants?”
I wish this is how it was with the quality of my overall prose. Come rain, come shine, come mania or black dog, how great it would be if everything I wrote shone the instant it leapt from my synaptic internexus to page or pixel, undaunted in its determination like a phantom gay-bashing Russian matriarch in his combat spanglies, dug in for the long run.
I mention this because no fewer than two short story rejections winged their way into my mailbox yesterday. I know that sentence would work much better had I said three or a dozen, but I haven’t written them yet. So it’s kind of like a Catch-20Putin situation. I need the beady-eyed closet trombone player to help imbue my words with the spunk of quality but his phantom presence commits me to writing this drivel instead of my next novel. And the 20, btw, is the mark out of 10 he’s just given himself for flashing his glitzy I AIN’T NO LADYBOY thong while perfecting his Nage-waza.
Like I care!
So — who’s been your writerly inspiration/nemesis this morning?