Bury Your Block!

"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you."
- Ray Bradbury

It was said that Ray dedicated a large chunk of time to the craft of writing. An understatement, to say the least. I believe that he demanded of himself a minimum of 3,000 words a day, not in short increments, but one sitting. The exact number of words is of no consequence, but it must be enough to provide the opportunity for transformation. Like running, unless the heartrate reaches a strong pulse and the body breaks sweat, a session of writing will do little good. Cliche as it may be--no pain, no gain.

The writer must squirm but make no adjustments. He must sit there cold turkey, waiting for the thread to snag and pull apart the ever-so-restrictive net that's holding the brain captive. The writer must work his way through the rust, the clunky, weak and flaccid clawmarks on the page. He must not grow fond of idle phrases that emerge: there will be others. They may have a luster, but that's the mirage cast by the writer's flow. Beware. He must write as though the road to the destination is being paved just as he takes each step forward and crumbling into decay once passed over. These are not words worthy of relic. They are a utilitarian's tools, molded with calloused hands, little statuettes of clay and shit that will pass away with tomorrow's morning dew. A Narcissus in love with the sound of his own words reflected on page he will not be, playing with the words as they curl around his tongue.

But to be drunk on writing is another thing entirely. The writer is carried away by act of putting words on the page furiously, much the way Kerouac took to the scroll fastened to his typewriter to avoid any interruptions, either technical or humanly. The body, of fat and mucus, blood and bone remains the last barrier keeping thoughts captive as they attempt their nosedive onto the page.

I've got beginnings down. It's the follow-through that gets me. No need for an ending. Perhaps that's what's stopping me from moving beyond the start. I am afraid of mediocrity in life--the yardstick held up to every squalid thought, every measly utterance made, every failure to get the words out when it mattered.

I'm sitting, a mute witness as the events of the world take place and I choose to abstain. After all: a vote not cast is a vote nevertheless. I understand now how fear can paralyze people at a certain point in their lives. Tragedy need only strike once and a person spends the rest of his life working to build a life that's calamity-proof. A cave. A room with a tiny window. And, oh, that eyehole for a window can taunt the room's occupant. There comes a point when these false starts become far too cumbersome to engage. Atrophy of muscle or brain or heart, and that familiar seat crease in the couch becomes even more welcoming.

There are the heroes to model ourselves by. The Mishimas who lived furiously, sakura rather than sappy oak. Bradbury shall be the posterchild for this cause. If it is discipline that separates greatness from mediocrity then it's my road to take.