I suppose when you have that thing called ‘Writer’s chip off the old block’ you need to do something.
Hemmingballs would suggest a stiff drink. But I don’t have that kind of warm luxury pie since I am sober in March, something I deeply regret.
And yet, I have to find other ways to soak the kidney bean of my creativity in the warm water of self-acceptance until I actually write something that doesn’t make me want to hang myself with a hooker’s knickers from the rafters of my local pub known as ‘The Moaning Whore.
So I do this crap that the kids call freewriting which is just writing whatever comes out of the soft grey butter of yer Cranius minimus. It’s not really called freewriting. It’s just called writing for fuck’s sake. All writing comes straight out of ya head and onto the sticky page, ya greasy figlicker.
And it is meant to be the year of le dragon which to this point (End Q1 2024), the annual report of my trauma is stating that this dragon fuck has been shooting fireballs from his oral sphincter into the microscopic walls of my anus since Jan 1 and it’s honestly left me in that pickle jar on the seventh floor of the temple of Christian Bale in 1973.
And no, it doesnt have to make sense, you little horsefly.
It’s part of the reason why I’m ready to get a typewriter to type raw liquid squid spunk onto mashed-up trees without any kind of electronic interference. I can’t type into the luminous screen device anymore. It makes me feel like every word I bleed costs four hundred thousand extra brain cells like the cost of saying what needs to be said is so much more, and the return is so much less.
It’s just like the other day when I deepthroated a sweet potato fry by accident, or that time I got horrifically paranoid that the pizza had been spiked cos the pizza boy gave me a look or the time I pulled off the famous no-toilet paper MacGyver.
Remember that?
Monday always comes and all of the Dumbledores are dead.
But these are the days of our lives, you pinheads. I can’t keep staring at this screen. I want to write on horsewood on top of a piss-windy hill while drinking scotch from a rhinoceros skull and wearing a kilt with no y-fronts.
Surely if we so-called writers do it that way, it’s like pouring kerosene on your creative bollocks or vag or the other types. Right?
As Jim Carrey said in Dead Poet’s Society,
Oh Crap Tan, My Crap Tan
Cos he’d spent too long reciting shitty poetry at the beach and failed to notice that he’d forgotten to take off his underpants which left him with a tremendous tiramisu tan mark where his anus was whiter than a Scottish Albino and his waist up was browner than browny brown brownyson’s brown brown brown brown brown brown.
Do you know what I mean?
Welcome to the party.
Why are we having a party, you ask?
It’s to celebrate ten years since I left the corporate world to become a writer like Brad Pitt. Ten years since that greasy old boss of mine known as Frosty The Soulman finally let me go when I ran out of good marketing ideas and wanted to open a franchise called the Pizza Nazi where all of the boxes have Swastikas on them.
It wasn’t my finest moment, If Im honest. And now, I sit here, glass of champagne between my toes, wondering if I’ll ever recreate those times or if I’m destined to just sit here day to day wondering whether I’ll stick my cock into medium or Substack or whether I’ll have the ball sockets to continue working on my now seventy thousand word novel which I hate every strand of.
Do you have the answer?
Do you?
Answers on an LSD-soaked postcard to:
Frank Pottington
11 Privet Drive
Little Winging.
Alright?
You have such a gift for hyperbole, FT.
I too have contemplated 'non-screen writing', but my handwriting is so bad I can't read what I wrote. Which could actually be a good thing.
Looking forward to your hated novel.