Start here already
Looks like I goddamn screwed the pooch again.
Yeah. Story of my life. I mean. I can write, or I think I can write, or other people tell me I can write. I just have this fatal relationship with the weather in my head, which sometimes goes foul and jinky and tells me that I should shut the fuck up and let the real writers tell the story.
Now, this wouldn’t a problem if I’d started another blog and posted some stuff and then taken a random dive. I can’t tell you how many blogs I’ve started and walked away from, like beater econobox cars I forgot to put oil into and so I just left them by the side of the road and stumbled down to the nearest bodega for some Gatorade and peanut M&Ms and a cab. The problem arises when the writer, namely me, has balked on so many fuckin’ assignments that every editor in town has me on the injured reserve list. Or worse.
So, here I sit on the evening of the Winter Solstice, starting another blog, blasting some Doug Sahm and then some classic Kinks noise, figuring I’d better do this thing now, before Mercury goes retrograde right after Christmas for three weeks, thus damning any new endeavors on the writing or communications tip. Of course, this time, I mean it: True love, not random banging.
Just a few days ago, I’d sworn off writing forever, putting my tail between my legs, skulking around the neighborhood like a dog that’s humped its last vomit-stained hobo leg before being driven toward a busy thoroughfare and certain death by a fusillade of empty plastic vodka bottles and Pabst cans. Yeah, I was going to launch that parallel career as a singer-songwriter, which as anyone can tell you should be, oh, a piece of cake for a 54-year-old white guy who does not sing as beautifully as the late Jeff Buckley, nor can I play guitar quite as sweetly as Richard Thompson. Of course, the local cafes and venues, clamoring for my musical genius, left me no time to write. Yeah, that’s it.
But then one of my longtime best friends showed up from out of town wanting to get coffee, bearing a gift, hoping I might change my mind and start scribbling again, or tapping feverishly into this laptop’s keys. About five or so pages into the gift, a copy of the latest Thomas Pynchon novel, and I was willing to say, well, fuck it, I’m not getting any younger and I’d better stop acting like a fucking stupid pussyboy and get with the goddamn program, right?
So: I can bang some shit out every day. No one has to read it. And maybe just maybe it will jumpstart my mojo and get me writing again, pulling down the big bucks that writers are getting these days. Hell, maybe I’ll fall in love with writing again.
Then again, maybe not. We’ll just have to see if I can come up with the goods consistently for a while. Like they say in recovery circles, go to 90 meetings in 90 days. (Mm-hmm, I’m one of those word-slinging sots who had to set the bottle aside on a daily basis for, well, a while now; sorry about that Mr. Daniel; you know I’m a frickin’ embarrassment with a raging boner and a mouthful of the world’s stupidest Jersey Shore pickup lines when I’ve got a decent heat on; besides, don’t wanna be goddamn William Faulkner face down in a field all fucked up on whiskey when those Norwegians come looking for me, do I?) Ergo, if I can just manage to go-go crank 90 posts in 90 days, well ….
Well, what the hell am I on about? This is post number one. Given my track record, it most likely will be my last. At least here I’m not hemming myself in like in the past: “Griffith on Music,” “Griffith on Dirigible Design,” “Griffith on Plymouth Belvederes vs. Dodge Coronets,” “Griffith on Finding the Little Man in the Boat and Making Her Jump for Joy.” Et goddamn cetera.
Hallelujah, baby. Let’s fucking get scribbled already. —Jackson Griffith