Writer’s Block

or How I learned to Abhor the Dollar

(This post is best read to the tune of Rage Against the Machine.)

Damnable thing, that; just when you think you’ve got yourself a brilliant idea to write about, you sit your pathetic ass down and try to hammer out something worthwhile in the vain hope that maybe, just maybe, if you throw enough proverbial shit at the wall some of it will stick in a coherent enough pattern to justify calling it writing.

Christ, no wonder writers end up starving or blowing their brains out.

Trying to monetize my mad ramblings – who would pay money for this shit anyway? – is perhaps my greatest Sisyphean task, and one I frequently and mistakenly indulge with all-nighters of booze and tobacco, thinking that this one is the one to catapult me to success.

And after sobering up the following morning afternoon, I give it a laugh. Oh, how I am a creature of predictable habit!

“You think too much,” I’ve oft been told; and how damningly true is the accusation leveled! What did Bukowski have to say about writing?

“Don’t try.” And these are words to live by.

My on-again off-again editor (and using that term loosely here) said it best when I asked him to review some of my latest poems I was peddling for submission. “Artistic integrity,” he laughingly said. “Die in obscurity; that’s the only way to preserve it.” He struck a chord of clarity with that remark: why bother chasing dollar signs when I should be writing for writing’s sake?

After much introspection, booze, tobacco, fatigue, and ink upon the page, it is decided he’s absolutely right. Maxwell, you wonderful kike, you’ve nailed it like Christ to the Cross.

Let’s be clear: I’m no professional and don’t plan on achieving such status. I’m not half bad with a pen (so I’m told) and the hacked state of most publications these days indicates I probably could achieve some sort of fame as a professional writer.

Provided I sell myself out, of course, to the Almighty Dollar. People tend to like vulgarity in their blog posts, paving the way for a book deal, which leads to a movie deal, which leads to death by selling out and cocaine. And if there’s one thing you can take away from Ozzy, let it be that money ain’t success: the truth is inconvenient.

Rock on, Portland.

Be a travel writer! they say. You go on so many adventures, surely someone would pay you to write about it!

Perhaps, but that profession is bought and sold like cattle at auction. You want to write whilst on the move and make a buck doing so? Well fuckin’ a right! You certainly can provided you advertise featured products. I do love traveling, as we all know, but I’d rather starve than shoehorn in an article about how fantastic these Hiking Shoes™ are when doing so.

And I’m pretty fucking good at starving.

It’s no secret that the majority of published material these days is written with an ulterior motive: for the piece of rubbish to end up on the big screen as a giant shit show of a poor adaptation for the sole purpose of raking in the dough of suckers who ever after debate which medium expressed the author’s intent best.

That’s why we have “literature” like Fifty Shades of Gray, Twilight, and the shit clinging to the arid ass cheeks of Nicholas Sparks defining our generation’s literary contributions. Again, I’m no professional, but come on folks: if this shit continues to be published and publicized what happens to the real authors who are actually trying to make the world a better place with their words?

Sellouts are rolling around in their Scrooge McDuck money piles whilst the genuine artists are faced with a horrid decision: keep up the good fight and die in obscurity, or join the herd and feed yourself exotic sushi off an even more exotic Asian babe.

And lemme tell you folks, after having almost married an exotic Asian babe, it ain’t worth it.

Comrades, keep up the fight. Die in obscurity whilst sticking to your morals and guns. Write for writing’s sake and let no one persuade you to give it all up because “this could be a blockbuster.” You’re better than that. We’re better than that.

Fuck you; I won’t do what you tell me.

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Lost in Leon

Hey there folks,

After many hijinks, detours, and just general tomfoolery, I finally made it to Leon. I can’t tell you how many times I had plans for coming to this city only for them to be dashed in pursuit of a better thread. Not mad by any means for the Way has been quite the experience. But here I am – the big city of Leon.

As I walked through the plaza towards my preferred stop for the day, I heard it again. That increasingly popular call I cannot seem to shake no matter which direction I go on this trail. “Bruno!”

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Just kickin’ it with Flavia (Italy) and Mr. Jesus

Yep, one of my pilgrims from El Burgo has been volunteering as a hospitalera for several days. The Way – nothing is linear out here I tell you. And would you believe it: she was volunteering at the Benedictine Monastery, the exact lodgings I was looking for! That’s Providence for you: I wanted to stay at this joint, had trouble finding it, so the All-Father took pity upon me and sent me a guide and a friend.

But why the Benedictine Monastery? My reasons are twofold: religious joints are usually a more charming and enlightening stay than a private albergue can offer, and I wanted a credencial for the Camino San Salvador.

Oh Christ, you may be thinking, what silly idea have you got in that warped head of yours now?

San Salvador? Yeah, I know, it’s a silly name: Saint Savior. Hey, I didn’t choose it.

Oh, right, what is San Salvador? Well, dear reader, sit right on down and lemme ‘splain it to ya.

Continue reading “Lost in Leon”