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Workloads and Writerdom

20 Nov

My posts have been a little sparse the last two weeks.  So sue me.  I’ve been busy.  It’s not easy keeping my schedule, and if you think you could do better you’re welcome to start your own blog, write your own short stories, and give it the ol’ college try.  In the meantime I’ll be sitting here in front of my aging laptop with a bottle of gin thinking of dick jokes for my next short story.  Or maybe a poem.  Ode to a Cockmuncher.  Something like that.  Yes, I’m 12.  What of it?

Puerile jokes aside (I can’t be the only fan of Pynchon around here, can I?), my issues with workload (yes, recovering from the night before IS part of my job) have got me thinking about all that lifehacker shit (does anyone actually buy the crap in that 4-hour work week book?).  My favorite productivity aid (in theory) has always been Seinfeld’s calendar streak–you don’t want to break the streak.  If only I could be arsed to go buy a wall calendar to write a streak on…

I will continue to be sparse until after Thanksgiving.  After having given thanks for the lightening of my weekly workload I will return in prolix fashion.

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Poetry man.

13 Nov

Last night I did my first poetry reading.  No, really.  I, a presumably grown man, stood up in front of a group of strangers are read structured verse sans rhymes that were (more or less) about my feelings.  The weird part is that they were well received.  Don’t take this to mean that I would denigrate the fine art of verse.  Rather, I’m denigrating those foolish enough to think they’re writing fine verse.  You know the types–they’re the overly enthusiastic ones in every creative writing class across the country.  If you’re really unlucky, their significant other is in the class with them, and they read love poems to each other.

It’s a little too much circle jerking for my tastes.  Yes, I write poems about women.  Mostly women I’ve lost.  I’d only read the poems to those women out of spite, or, if the poem is vague and disguised enough, out of some pissant irony, snickering to myself as I say mean things about them without them getting it.  Alright, my poetry’s not that petty, but it is that selfish, and the thought that I would dare think anyone else would care about it nauseates me.

So why did I do it?  Why did I read poetry to a crowd of strangers?  Fuck if I know, but I do know that I liked it.  And that’s the worst part.