As you’re reading this statement, I assume that you’re picturing me as a whiny and pretentious 4-year old with pigtails and an astonishingly upturned nose, shoving expensive chocolates and Petrossian special-reserve caviar down her pie-hole, a la Augustus Gloop. That’s what I’m imagining, anyway.
Really, M, grow a set. It can’t be that bad. It was your idea, after all.
But seriously, for someone like me who is perilously underequipped in all things will-related, committing to a rigid (or not-so-rigid if you consider my track record) schedule of intelligent and thought-provoking scrawlings is a heavy burden to carry. I understand now why authors tend to rent out wooded cabins and spend months alone with their typewriter or laptop after running their smart phone over with a riding lawnmower. Life gets in the way.
On the other hand though, the flavor of life is what really makes the cake worth eating, now isn’t it? Though I would venture to guess that such deliberate isolation must breed tremendous creativity [and serial killers], I don’t think that I could ever fully commit to a life entirely powered by my mind and an electric typewriter.
I know I wasn’t born with an imagination like Lewis Carroll, which I do think is really too bad, but my disappointment is tempered by the threat of what would possibly happen if my dreams became scripted reality. A chiropractor that uses a power drill to correct your T4/T5 spinal misalignment is still pretty scary, even on paper (especially at age 11, which was when this sickening brainchild came to me in the night – my sister can confirm that the next 3 years were full of dreams and mental snapshots that were quite alarming but simultaneously had the potential to make me a cool million in slasher film royalties). It's a good thing I haven't written all of them down. That is, unless you consider that as a result, I didn't make a cool million in slasher film royalties. Then it seems less good.
And all of this creativity happened without the massive opiate supply that Lewis Carroll must have been employing – we are agreed on that fact, right?
I guess what I’m saying is that finishing each of these little posts is like taking a good nap. For the experience to be sufficiently gratifying, I need to expend a fair amount of energy in preparation and do some rigorous carbo-loading in advance. It’s not as easy as it seems. Please, feel for me.
And can you hand me a napkin? I've dribbled a little caviar down my front.