The Inspiration For This Journey

There once was a man from Nantucket
Whose schlong was so long...

And that's as far as I got.

You can clearly see I'm a writer.  I know I'm a writer (I spend at least 30 minutes every morning crying and screaming "you're a writer, dammit!" at the bathroom mirror).  The disconnect comes because the world doesn't seem to know I'm a writer.

My first campaign involved telling the world, one hot chick in the Soho bar scene at a time.  The ones who were fairly sober or native English speakers usually ignored me.  A few laughed, but an impromptu trip to the men's room to scream and cry my personal affirmations for thirty minutes usually straightened that out.

But the non-native English speakers, and the really beyond plastered drunk hotties, and the not-really-hot-but-do-the-best-with-what-they-have Jersey girls... they fall under the writer's spell that I wield (borrowed simile alert) like a rapier.  The spell I see swimming in their bloodshot, partially closed eyes when they yell over the noise of the bar "you're a waiter?" confirms everything I want to believe.

The other question I'm often asked, "what have you written?"  That's the question that keeps me crying in the mirror every morning.  That's the harsh banshee cry of an alarm clock during a five-alarm hangover pulling me back to reality.  In a time when just saying you are something makes it so, writing remains one of the few hold-outs requiring you to put you money where your mouth is, and both my money and my mouth have been to some extremely dark places.

Which leads me back to where I started this blog post.  For the first time in my life, I feel the need to create and you've seen the grand total of my efforts.  I actually wrote those two lines last week before I posted my first entry here.  Whoever that chick was in my dress shirt last time saw me suffering from a touch of writer's block (just saying that makes me feel like a writer) and mentioned that blogging might get me in the writing habit.  So here I am, two posts in and no further into the writing.

I see Amazon lists a book called How I Became a Famous Novelist by Steve Hely.  Looking through the description and only understanding roughly every other word tells me that we're alike.  He wants to write to bang chicks.  I want to write to bang chicks.  Too bad he already wrote about wanting to write to bang chicks because I feel like I would have a lot to say on that subject.  Hopefully my answer lies somewhere in that how-to tome.

There once was a man from Nantucket
whose schlong was so long he could suck it.

It feels good to get that out, like I just got over the hump, crossed that Rubicon.  Maybe that bird whose name I never caught and who seems to have kept that dress shirt was onto something with this blog advice.  Or maybe I just need to scream and cry in the mirror louder.  Either way, I'm off and running.