Why is writing so hard? It shouldn’t be this hard. All you have to do is sit down at your desk and invite your fingers onto the dance floor of prose composition, that’s all, just ask those shy, spindly digits to boogie with you; “May I have the honour of this rhumba madame?” Surely no well-brought up daddles could rebuff such a charming offer? It should be as easy as lighting a menthol, knocking back a six-pack of Coke Zero and getting to work, ideas spewing out of you the writer, like insults from a playground bully, like excuses from a Tory minister, there’s no reason at all why you shouldn’t hammer out 5,000 top drawer words before lunch time, and another coupla K before Krav Maga at 5.
Just look at Jessica Fletcher, she writes a whole mystery novel in the time it takes for the credits to roll, and that’s on top of withstanding countless near fatal assassination attempts. Or Carrie Bradshaw, she doesn’t even have an ergonomic keyboard but she shows up at that open window, in a marabou sweater every damn day. You don’t see her pissing about (excuse my French) with online personality tests, or distracting herself with funny baby gifs do you? No, exactly. Even Sabrina the Teenage Witch managed to file her stories for the school newspaper on time, and she had Principal Kraft on her case, threatening to suspend her, and dating both of her kooky aunties. Each of these writers and by extension (or so I imagine) every other writer working today (besides you, you incompetent idiot) just gets the job done! Without any of this What-point-is-there-in-writing-when-thew-world-is-literally-going-to-shit? cry-baby song and dance. I don’t seen anyone else around here complaining about writer’s block.
I mean, how difficult can it be? Just pick a topic and bash away at that keyboard, baby. Anything, I don’t mind, you choose. Flamenco, rights for (certain kinds of) women, the longevity of Unchained Melody, anything, you pick, and look if you’re stuck for inspo just type “How do I” into your search engine and see what it suggests.
How do I get a covid vaccine?
How do I take a screenshot?
How do I renew my passport?
How do I know if he really loves me lyrics.
See? Each of these is a perfectly good staring place for a snappy, sassy, quirky but politically sound and absolutely current article, which you could pitch to any number of publications. Your problem is that you aren’t trying, there’s inspiration everywhere, just like smell the flowers man, that’s life, that’s art. And plant parenting is really a thing right now, so win-win, eh?
Oh sure, sure, I see. You’d rather sit around chewing your fingernails in despair, because you think you’re a real artist right? Ugh, you’re such a snob, why don’t you just put your beret on and admit it? “I’m only interested in writing my intellectual bullshit like a little bitch, for the 7 other dickwads who read this crap?” Seriously. I think you’d be a lot happier if you were just honest with yourself - you’re out of touch, and you need to shake it up, sister. Do you think that if Charles Dickens was here today he’d be moping into his gruel because he couldn’t find the right adjective to describe the precise tone of static that the Duchess of Cambridge gives off when she runs her hands over one of her sensible navy Zara day dresses? No! Dicko would be a show runner on Real Housewives of Atlanta, because he was a baller, a go-getter, he wanted to be in on the action, not sitting on the sidelines googling “Symptoms of depression.” Haven’t you ever read The Secret? All you have to do is visualise it and it will happen, ok?And clearly that shit works because how else can you explain the fact that a book so blatantly wacko sold 30 million copies? Exactly.
So now, what I want you to do is picture yourself in a big beautiful office, no sorry, a big beautiful study, with like a glass of cognac and a cigar, and you’re sat at a huge mahogany desk with like hundreds of books on the shelves behind you, books you’ve actually read! And you’re finishing up a long hard day of work, you’re sipping your Courvoisier, you get your PA to ‘gram it for you since it’s a paid partnership, and you think to yourself, “Yes, life is good” and you let down your hair and it tumbles to your shoulders (and is not at all frizzy) and your puppy snores adorably on the sheepskin rug Stephen King sent you for Yom Kippur. That’s you, right there, that’s the life you could have if only you tuned in to the vision and dropped the negative nancy attitude. I mean it’s not rocket science is it, you just got to tatp-tap-tap away until you hit the 1,000 word mark, then you can upload this to you substack, for free of course, (lol if you think anyone’s gonna pay for this crap) then the rest of the day is yours to spend massaging your crippling social anxiety, neat right? Ok, so what have we got? 881 words, huh, ok, close enough I guess! Jeez, all that fuss over nothing! Just hit post and let’s get out of this dump. What kind of idiot writes at Burger King anyway?
* For the record I don’t think grammarly can ever help tbqh imho smdh ttyl.