let me set the scene for you. i'm at a coffee shop in the west village. one of them arrogant places that don't care for credit cards or wi-fi. but they have amazing coffee and no tv which is exactly what i'm looking for. it's nice, warm, comfortable. i'm sitting at a corner table facing an angry-looking, latte-drinking, black-clothes wearing, couldn't-give-a-fuck new-york crowd. it's perfect. still, it's been a while so i'm a tad nervous. keep checking my hair in the mirror, telling myself for the unmpteenth time that i look just fine. and i do. got my fuck-me jeans on (you know the ones that hug your butt just right), a tight white t-shirt, and my lucky underwear. i look around one last time, take a deep breath, then pull out my laptop and turn it on. i'm ready for my date with writing.
seriouslty, that's what i'm calling it. figure if i'm to woo the muses, i've gotta do it right. truth be told, i'm worried. terrified really. i think it's why i stopped writing. got caught in a swirling undercurrent of fear and hubris. the more readers i had, the stronger the current. who's reading? what do they think? will they be disappointed? will i be able to top my last story? and that, as any writer will tell you, is the surest way to losing your mojo. you see, writing is a lot like dating. we want what we can't have. the moment we get it, we move on. sad but true. the moment i started caring about what other people thought about my writing, my muse, mojo, talent, whatever you want to call it, got bored and dumped me. so now i'm using every trick in the book to regain my coolness, get back my attitude. i stare at the screen, that blank screen that's had me so scared and, as always, it looks at me with disgust. it's mocking me. it's a fucking bully.
screen: “so you want a piece of me?”
me (petrified): “yeah i do. what are you going to do about it?”
screen: “same thing i always do, kick your ass, show you who's boss, then send you home with your tail between your legs.”
me: “i'm not scared of you this time..." (I really am).
screen: “oh yeah? why's that? you found a spine to go with that vagina?”
me: “you're an ass.”
screen: “you're boring.”
me: “aww. i'm devastated. laptops... such a fickle, sophisticated crowd. especially you cheap 300-dollar netbooks.”
and with that, i feel my fears start to evaporate, my shoulders rising ever so slightly. i'm not intimidated anymore.
screen: “that the best you got? is this how you're planning on winning back your readers? uninspiring. you're uninspiring.”
me: “hmm. maybe i should trade you in for one of them shinny ipads. maybe then i'll be more inspiring.”
“you're worried about of what people may think of your writing? then write something filthy. that'll cure all your fears. the filthier the better.”
smile. filthy. sounds about right.
TO BE CONTINUED...