Newsgroups: talk.bizarre Date: Tue, 1 Dec 1998 22:34:39 +1030 From: Fred Hawes <email@example.com> X-Sender: fhawes@salam Subject: FTSD Contributor's Block Message-ID: <Pine.OSF.3.96.981201220357.8928B-100000@salam> MIME-Version: 1.0 Lines: 58 Sooooo, December 1st is coming closer, at relativistic velocities, and you're ... not ... QUITE ... prepared. You've been thinking, been planning, (been procrastinating? drinking? fucking off?) and although you've had several "that would be a good one" notions, they just haven't come together into stories. And it's time to get at least one of them together. You've got work to do, and you're not doing it. No, the real work, that is, your job, which of course you're ignoring, while you try to compose a non-sucking FTSD submission. Maybe a story in that? Noooooo. Oh, God, the ideas, the ideas that won't work. And the worst one of all, the one you're NOT going to use this year, you promised, is the extended-second-person-address story. Jeezus H. God, they're so heavy-handed, there's no way to do them right, your junior high school English teacher was right, just like she was about the damn objective correlative (although you don't remember what it *is* but she was right about it). The story about the two-day drunk last month? Which, well, seemed bizarre while it was happening. Or the one about your old girlfriend, the psycho? Which, well, is overworked, and you've already regaled alt.angst with it. And it's not bizarre enough, since every time you tell it everyone else tops your story with their own psycho-ex-girlfriend stories. Well, maybe the story about all those stories you won't be writing because you decided they Just Don't Have What It Takes? Just like you don't. SHIT! In desperation you head on over to the library -- after all, gotta copy some articles to read, yeah, read, uhhh, that's IT! A story idea: the mutant-literary-ripoff post that nobody, even you, quite gets the point of, so off to the modern American Lit section, and your hand falls on, it falls on----- a book, (well of course it's a book!), and let's say it's "Amateurs" by Donald Barthelme. Hey, how perfect, after all, that's what we all are on t.b, right? (you say, trying to delude yourself, c'mon, they're not amateurs there, these are Highly Trained Professionals, maybe even Professional Killers, Professional Sucking-Newbie-Killers, and your ass is grass.) Open to a story, it's the school story, read it thinking, let's see, how can I do this. But the story is all blurry, you're reading through tears in your eyes, this story is too good, it's too right, nothing like what YOU'RE trying to come up with. And the book goes back on the shelf and you, out the door. AAAAAaaaaaaaahhhh!!! You're frittering your time away -- it's like an Out-of-Body-Experience, watching yourself, you write notes on pieces of scratch paper, you have no brain at all, you're procrastinating JUST LIKE YOU USUALLY DO!!! Until finally, reduced to complete and total despair, you're bashing your forehead on the keyboard, trying to spell I AM AN UNCREATIVE SUCKING UNBIZARRE COMPLETE AND TOTAL WASTE OF HUMAN FLESH on your face in little reversed injection-molded-letter impressions so that you can read it when you look in the mirror in a few minutes; and you look up, and see the screen, and it looks like this, and, oh, wow!, it's a post, maybe not a *good* post, but it's a post, and darned if you don't actually post it. <sigh of relief>.