I wanted to write something profound and meaningful. I couldn’t think of anything worth a pound or mean, so I wrote this.
I do that sometimes, you see. And I also do it while wearing a tea cosy on my head.
On goes the tea cosy and I sit down to write even though I don’t know what I’m going to write. For instance, this sentence wasn’t a sentence until I made it a sentence a minute ago.
And this paragraph wasn’t here until I pressed the Enter key a few seconds ago.
Anyway…
The point here is, I need to sharpen my pencil (not a euphemism) because it is blunt. It has no point. I’m meandering again like a meandering person on a meander.
(Come on, Andy, this is actually nonsense…)
Ah yes, right focus.
I remember a time when I used to write like a serious person, seriously trying to write… seriously. I’d craft 1,000 word tours around whatever subject I thought people wanted to read. Then, I fell off that particular bicycle.
What I’m saying is, writing something of interest is like walking along a tightrope over burning coals wearing a blindfold — risky. And warm.
Because interesting stuff takes work (eh? Where to?). Each word must carry its own weight (unlike the words in this piece. I’m carrying them. The lazy BASTARDS). There should be flow, like a stream. The writing should be free as a turd (what?) sailing along with no effort.
Or not effort the reader notices.
I remember being in this position before (last night. I often write with my laptop on my knees in the evening (not that position, idiot!)) where ideas are as rare of knocking donkey crap (eh?).
But (Sod it, I’ve forgotten, excuse me while I scream into a cushion)…
You have to still try.
So, now I write while wearing a tea cosy on my head. Because it keeps my ears warm and it lets the comedy brew.