Oh well. There’s no use faking it. 18 months of blogging have taught me that. All I can do is listen for the voice in my head to start babbling again. Most times it won’t shut up, spewing out fractured prose at the most inappropriate times. Now, however, it’s fallen mysteriously quiet, leaving me with nothing else to do but stare at the desktop talismans I’ve gathered in my new writing lair. So far even my beloved Ape in Thought isn’t helping. He just sits there, staring at the human skull in his hand and ignoring a certain lenslinger who’s slowly pulling his eyebrows out one by one. Stupid monkey.
No, it’s my fault. Something I’ve done has clogged my noggin’ and like a boozy hangover the only cure is time and solitude. Alone-time I got, but a distant whistle is blowing and I got a train of thought to catch. Otherwise I’ll be forced to update you on my lack of updates, to further explain why I’m not explaining. Too much of that and you’ll grow weary, leaving me with a constipated blog and only a ceramic primate to blame for my lack of narratives. Before long, I’ll cast him off into yard sale exile and search for another inanimate object to credit for my creativity. But then again, that would be a waste of perfectly good office clutter. Better I leave the monkey alone and heed the advice of a childhood favorite:
“You cannot wait for inspiration. You have to go after it, with a club.” -- Jack LondonSage advice from a man who knew. Someday I’m gonna re-read The Sea-Wolf in his honor. Meanwhile, I have a monkey to bludgeon.