The content and comments regarding Wolf's Identity Crisis reminded me of a long ago post of mine, which was prompted by an entry of Malcolm's.

Quite out of character for me, I took a contrary position to his espousal of the wonders and romance of writing.

Ha Ha Ha, good one, Malcolm!  But, you should be more careful, there might be impressionable young people scanning these blogs who will think you’re serious.  We all know that writing is a tortuous, soul-sucking endeavor, and it’s only by happy accident that anything within the realm of comprehension winds up on the page.

For instance, around mid-morning I sat down at my desk with a cup of coffee, took pen in hand and stared longingly at a blank sheet of paper.  I began to jot things down, and things seemed to be going smoothly, when all of a sudden I had a vision of a midget riding a gerbil, with an ostrich feather protruding from behind his head; the midget, not the gerbil.  Eventually I was able to reconcile the fact that the saddle the midget was using was all wrong for the job, and slowly build some character; the midget’s, not mine.

As things progressed, out of the corner of my mind’s eye, I spy an hermaphroditic dominatrix chef, in chaps, wielding a spatula and a wire whisk and barking orders in some strange language that sounded like a cross between Hungarian and German Shepherd.  I finally think I have a handle on where this tale might be leading me, when it turns out that those weren’t chaps, after all, but fleshy folds that were concealing two more hermaphrodites; one in lederhosen and the other smoking a meerschaum pipe.

At this point, if the last two hermaphrodites hadn’t cost me my appetite, it should have been lunchtime.  Instead I settle for another cup of coffee and step out on the back deck for some fresh air.

How can I be expected to finish a novel?  All of this took place while I was just trying to make out my grocery list!


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