On Writing A Book

Ostensibly, this blog is something to get me writing each day as a warm-up to writing the bulk of my book.

Instead, I've taken to updating immediately before I go to bed in the wee a.m. of the day for that date, thereby eliminating the possibility of getting work done after. Additionally, after the first eight months or so I completely ran out of jokes.

I mean all of them. I told all my jokes. I had to start making new jokes on a daily basis. It was hard. Especially when I stopped doing things each day. Some days, just nothing funny happens. That's life. (That's also when you end up seeing a reaction to BBC news stories or a list that's maybe 3 or 4 points long. I do try to keep to longer entries for you. It's always for youuuuuu….)

Anyway, when I actually manage to get some work done on the book I feel good. Then I leave it alone for a few weeks until I feel so guilty I have to start again because I've literally cleaned everything I can around my work area without actually working.

However, this ast week I found something while cleaning. I was reorganizing the office supply nooks on the hutch on my desk in the corner where I keep the desktop I haven't used in over a year and only rarely sit. And inside that tiny cubby I found a tiny notepad with some folded fliers wedged inside, and I said, "I can throw this away, right?"

No. I looked at what it was and it was the notepad I haven't used since I went to the concert which I did not write up for a local newspaper and jumpstart a rock music critic career. Instead, it became a college essay a year later, a second essay a year after that, and then the first, titular chapter of the book I'm writing.

And it validates a joke everyone complains about.

I talk about how tiny the venue was, and how lame it was, and then I say that Slayer was performing soon. No one believes Slayer played this place. Really? It's Slayer. What the shit else are they doing? Still, no one believes Slayer would play in Poughkeepsie, N.Y.

WELL SUCK IT BITCHES I FOUND THE FLIER.


Yeah, okay, it was a MONTH later instead of next week, and it was actually at a much larger, nearby location, but it was totally booked by the company that owned the tinier venues, run by the same people and listed on the handout explaining who was playing at that venue in the ensuing weeks.

You just got Hoardered.

That joke is legit, yo. And I got the records to prove it. This book goes gold or platinum or Pulitzer or whatever color it is books about hipster dickweeds go, I got evidence to prove to the Comedy IRS that I'm not just making shit up.

I mean I make shit up constantly, but that stuff's reserved for dickweeds like you guys.