Part One | Part Two | Part Three
“So what are you writing today, “ said the old man, “the latest Tolkein wanna-be? A political thriller set during the Polk administration? Some bullshit coming of age story about a manchild and the manic pixie dream girl who completes him? God, it isn’t some story about space people and their relationship to Bob Dylan, is it?”
“No, nothing nearly that ambitious. Just blogging about movies, the outdoors, things I do.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“Well, it just feels inessential, rather boring. So I went to a festival, ate some greasy sweet food, played a couple games, and listened to some music. So what, who cares what I have to say? So either I try to attach a higher purpose to the event, or go the other way and try to diminish it, hiding it in a sea of non sequiturs and The Simpsons references. The second approach, while sometimes fun, more often results in the disaster my current post is.”
“I see. Y’know what I fucking think? If something is worth writing about, give it the respect it deserves. Otherwise, leave it alone, or twat abo--”
“Tweet, it’s called tweeting”
“What the fuck ever, like I care. The point is if you are writing about real events, you should give them the respect they deserve. Sit for a few hours, think over possible angles, actually put some effort into it, for christ sake. Who knows, maybe you’ll find a new way to look at the event, something that might be interesting.”
“Wait, you think I should work at it? Why would I want to write if I had to put effort into it?”
“Ha-ha, fuckwit.”
“No, I get it, I do tend to just slap the crap up without taking time to think it through. Thanks for the help”
“My pleasure, my good man, “ said a familiar voice. It took him a second, but he realized it was his own voice that had replied.
“What the hell is going on?”
“I’m afraid you decided to disappear into your own ass, worrying about that dreadful blog post. To get yourself some perspective, you needed to create a false reality.”
“But why the crusty foul-mouthed old man?”
“Because that old fart represented authenticity to you. Had he shown up looking like Isaac Newton or Kate Winslet, you wouldn’t have bought your vision.”
“Why am I speaking to myself in the second person?”
“Because speaking in the first person sounds fucking insane. OK, now that the wisdom has been imparted, you feel free to remove your head from your ass.”
“SNRRAAKKmmmmmmm, “ said Bertram as he lifted his head from his desk. He looked around, saw he was back in his house, and that he must have dreamed the entire thing. He stood up and stretched. On the computer screen was his awful draft post. With a couple clicks he erased it. Picking up a pen and pad of paper, he went outside to start over, his head assuredly no longer up his ass.
