That poor little ******* sat at his typewriter and thought to himself: “What do I write about today?”
It was an odd, off-feeling, thing that he felt. Sometimes he told people: “It feels like it feels when you are sitting there, reading a book or something and you suddenly have to take a ****. But, instead of the feeling being in your guts, it’s in your brain.”
The problem with saying that kind of thing out loud was that the poor constipated writer always and almost immediately felt like he was telling people that he was full of **** or otherwise a *******, based upon how it all sounded to him, and he was sure to everyone else as soon as the words escaped his lips.
The stagnant little writer went outside and smoked a cigarette. He was trying to think of a new way to think.
He thought: “Most of the time I write about stuff that happens to me or the things that I see as I’m wandering around town. Sometimes, I make things up, telling stories about characters that I’ve based loosely on people that I’ve met via work, or barflies I’ve sat next to, nursing a beer or whiskey.”
Usually though, the poor constipated writer ended up writing about writing, or standing outside smoking cigarettes, or sitting in some bar, next to some ****** who wanted to talk about politics or religion or some other nonsense that wasn’t worth listening to and then what was that poor little plugged-up ******* supposed to do?
Well, nevermind.
I bet he’ll just do what he usually does and go whine about how boring he must be as a writer, how nobody ever gives a two-penny farting **** about anything he has to say.
Then, I can already imagine it, can you?
He’ll go into that cold little room at the back of his house and he’ll continue to do what he’s always done.
He’ll write stories about the streetlamps and the moonlight.
He’ll write about that girl that he knows; the one with the strawberry hair and the thousands and thousands of freckles.
Then maybe the next day he’ll write about the old lady who’s lights got shut off by the power company and about how he called the power company and said: “Listen here, ya sonofabitch!” and they turned the lady’s power back on.
But, that poor little constipated writer is in a place where he feels like nothing he writes is worth anything at all, so he might as well give up.