the brief but frustrated blog

Blogger is still experiencing difficulties with the archives. Here's hoping they didn't get erased-- I've been mulling the possibility of an essay collection. I wrote the nice Blogger people and mentioned the problem; they wrote back that they're aware of the problem and will have it fixed as soon as possible.

If my right eyelid seems a little twitchy and I appear to be toggling my gun's safety on and off, on and off, it's just because I drank a bit too much tea and need to drain the dragon. That's all. Nothing to do with those Blogger assholes WHO WILL ALL ROT IN HELL IF I HAVE ANYTHING TO SAY ABOUT IT.

Breathe in.

Peace.

Breathe out.

Peace.

Breathe i--

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I realize I can still post blogs, but with the archives down, I wonder whether what I post will be saved. So I'd rather play it safe and not write anything even remotely meaticular. Which leaves me stewing. Stunted. Stymied. Stalled. Static. Stricken. Stultified. And as always, stinky.

How to describe the current frustration?

Imagine you're Stephen King. You've got a mind that can churn out novels at a rate of about five a year. Your fingers never stop moving. Put a pen and legal pad in your in your hands-- words spill out onto paper. Put you in front of a computer-- the screen fills within seconds. Writing, for you, is like breathing for the rest of us. Writing is shitting for the mind. It brings relief. It makes you proud. You want to point out your steaming logo-pile to other people-- look what I just made! Think you can crap bigger? And if you can't shit, it builds up. Mental constipation is the curse of every writer who cannot reify The Word.

Now imagine you're Stephen King in front of a keyboard. You've had this amazing story or essay or article gestating in the uterus of your mind. It's ready for birth. It's been kicking. You've already selected a name for it. You can feel your brain's vagina dilating, ready to gush forth with glistening literary vernix, the logo-baby, and a slurry of placental logo-afterbirth manifesting itself as errata and bad punctuation (to be cleaned up later in a second draft, of course).

You lean forward, excited. You're gonna type this baby in a fucking hour, because goddamn it, you're Stephen King, and nobody gets between you and your keyboard when your Muse has seized your wang. Your fingers hover over the keyboard--

--then your ugly son runs by with hedge clippers,

yells, "HEY, DAD!",

very deliberately snips all ten of your fingers off,

then skips away, humming "Bohemian Rhapsody":

I'm just a poor boy, from a poor family...

Whatever mood you're in at that moment--

THAT'S WHAT I'M FEELING RIGHT NOW, THANKS TO BLOGGER.

Kevin at IA refers to his service, Blog City, as "an abortion." Oh, it's much worse. Much, much worse.
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