One of my English professors had a quote on her computer monitor that read, “A writer is someone who writes every day.” I’ve kept up with her over the years and she has really stacked up the titles with her name under them.
I’ve often repeated that quote, particularly when I was teaching freshman English, but I mean, jesus christ, every fucking day? I don’t even think I write my own name every day.
Writers are not that simple, so defining a writer can’t be that simple. I approach writing the same way I do exercise: I’ll go through spurts, some as long as a decade and others merely weeks, where I pound the keyboard or some weights in an effort to exorcise the demons that force the torture.
I struggle to tell you which one I like more, writing or exercise, because they are both such a pain in the ass. But, the more you do it, the easier it becomes.
Or that’s what I’ve heard, and I guess they’re right. It’s also true that the longer you stay away from it, the harder it is to get back into it. And then again, some people just aren’t meant to write, but we try to anyway. And as god said, crossing his legs, “I see where I have made plenty of poets, but not so much poetry.”
WWBD: What would Bukowski do? That’s an easy one. He’d get (or stay) drunk, go grab the ugliest whore he could find on the strip, and head for the track. Either that or he’d pound at his typewriter till his fingers bled, and then he’d get an ugly whore and head to the track. That son of a bitch lived it, but he was also one hell of a prolific writer. I bet he didn’t write every day. I’d bet $100 he didn’t.
I went to the casino a couple of weeks ago and I did my best to have a real experience. I took a handful of pills, drank a shitload of beer, and smoked some weed in the parking lot. My experience consisted of losing a new pair of sunglasses to an Indian and $800 to the slots. I really liked those sunglasses.
The Indian showed me a special rock that he said would give me luck. All he wanted was my sunglasses. With the rock in hand, I went straight to a machine in the High Rollers room and lost $100 in one pull. The rock is now somewhere at the bottom of the fountain with all the other lucky rocks.
Don’t feel sorry for the Natives. They may not be getting the land back, but they’re taking every last dime that walks or rolls through their doors.
When I got lost in the casino and had to call a friend to come find me, I knew it was time to go back to the room and drink until I passed out. A little Jack Daniels in the coffee the next morning and I was good to drive back home.
We all need to exorcise some demons from time to time. And compared to others, some of us have more of those horny bastards.
Damn, I’m worn out. That’s enough exercise for the day.