Just Keep Writing


It’s just an exercise, I remind myself.  It’s just an exercise.  Over and over.  The words become a mantra.

I ask, An exercise in what?   Futility?  Worthless?  Doubt? Frugality? Diplomacy? (These are amongst the words auto-populated in the Google search engine when, “An Exercise In,” is entered.)  It can’t just be a writing exercise.  It can’t just be a rambling of nonsense.  It can’t be pointless.  It can’t be garbage drivel.  It has to be profoundWittyArt.  At the very least there should to be a story of some sort.  An opinion should be offered.  “Put yourself out there,” I say to myself.  Don’t be a pussy.  If you don’t have a good story to tell, write something provocative.  Write something you wouldn’t want your mother to read.  Something that would make her blush.  Don’t be afraid to embarrass yourself.  You’re a writer for fuck’s sake!

Now what to write about?  What to write about?

It’s just an exercise.  It’s just an exercise.

Write about your day.  Write about how you woke up at quarter to eleven.  How you begged your wife for sex.  How you reheated yesterday’s pot of coffee.  Went to a farmers market where you bought nothing.  Then went to an all you can eat Indian restaurant and gorged yourself on chicken tikka masala.  Chicken tikka masala that went through you like a laser.  Write about how you had to rush to a toilet which you got to in the nick of time.  That’s funny, isn’t it?  That’s provocative, isn’t it?  No, it isn’t.  It’s Indian food and shit humor.  It’s stupid.  It’s hacky.  It’s boring.

It’s just an exercise.  It’s just an exercise.

Maybe write about the goings on while at home.  Oh, yeah.  Nothing happened while at home today.  You relieved the fullness in your fat, Indian food filled belly by sitting on the couch and doing nothing.  Well not nothing.  There was that pot you smoked. The Kandy Kush.  There was that soccer game you kinda watched. Manchester City vs. New Castle (Don’t ask me who won.  I was too stoned from the Kandy Kush and too full of Indian food to give a damn.)  Pot and soccer is not nothing.  Pot and soccer is definitely somethingIsn’t it?  While smoking pot and watching a soccer game, too full of Indian food to move from your couch, may be something (in the most loosest sense), it’s not worth writing about.  There’s not much to say.  It’s lazy in every sense of lazy.

It’s just an exercise.  It’s just an exercise.

Well, what happened after that?  Something must have happened after all that nothing.  Surely I did something after waking up late, begging for sex, reheating yesterday’s coffee, going to the farmers market, gorging on Indian food, smoking pot, and watching soccer.  I’m sure I did, something.  Oh, yeah-  I ate cashews.  I smoked a bit more pot.  I begged my wife for a bit more sex.  I begged my wife to go out and pick up burgers.  Big, greasy burgers. Burgers and fries to fill my fat belly still full of Indian food.  Alas, she refused to go pick up big, greasy burgers.  I hate when she refuses me.  But I’m not unreasonable.  I dealShe reminds me that we have a freezer full of damn veggie burgers and that we already went out for Indian food today.  “Veggie burgers over MVP Burgers?”  I ask.  There’s no comparison between veggie burgers and MVP Burgers.  I mean give me fucking break.  She reminds me that we eat out way too much.  She tells me I’d eat at MVP Burgers every night if I had my way.  She’s right.  She knows me.  She knows I’m a fat ass at heart and that I’d be 300 pounds in a matter of months if she didn’t make me eat veggie burgers.

Why do I feel stress?   It’s just an exercise.  Nothing to stress about.  It’s just an exercise.

So what happened after the veggie burgersThink, damn you.  Think!  Think of something better to write about than your adventure with God damn veggie burgersThink!

It’s just an exercise.  It’s just an exercise.

Just keep writing.  Just keep writing.


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