Writer’s Block

So here’s the problem, if you want to call it that.

Every time for the past few weeks I’ve tried to make a post, I can’t.

People are reading this. Which is weird, really.

I don’t think I should talk about race anymore- from what I can tell, the discussion is doing very well without me, save for the wackjob white supremacists who scare the holy living fuck out of me. My understanding is that the Times is doing some kind of followup on the whole thing this Sunday.

Does anyone else find that odd? You know, that they gave my “lament” (THEIR word, NOT mine) 45 column inches and only mentioned the paper my piece initially appeared in ONCE? Well, OK, I understand they shouldn’t promote another paper, but seriously, guys, how much mileage can one paper get out of something that appeared in another? I guess I shouldn’t find it odd that they want to milk this for all they can, but it amazes me.

See (prepare for tangent or, perhaps, the POINT of this blog entry), this is my problem. I used to write whatever the hell I wanted up here, and about three or four people read it. It was a great way for me to loosen up and get into “real” writing (which simply means writing that pays the bills), and if Shelly or Luci or whoever laughed, that was a plus. But all of a sudden all faceless people are leaving comments, and I feel like I shouldn’t just write about frivolous things because it will seem like I’m making light of everything else.

But writing about frivolous things is how I quiet the noise in my head, and for the past month the noise inside my cranium has approached levels rivaled ONLY by AC/DC in concert. Only not as melodious.

So, just think of all future blog entries as a sign of my empty head. It’s probably not that big of a jump for some of you.

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I write. I take pictures. I love my dog. I love Florida. My 2016 book, 'Backroads of Paradise' did really well for the publisher and now I feel a ridiculous amount of pressure to finish the second book.