I’ve read an excellent post about the intricate creation of writer’s block. It might have been written by Job—if Job had a sense of humor. This particular Job had been suffering the usual broken body, fragile finances, fractured familial state, so that, scarcely able to write, nonetheless he had time enough on his hands. ...Seated there among the potsherds—one can always post during writer’s block, cannot one?
Oh the squalor of his domestic concerns. Written by a man determined not to make God cry, this satirist and critic (I’ll call him Mr. Boj) seems to bear his own Author no ill will. It’s almost as though he’s saying, I’ll trust my Author if he kills me, but I’m determined to crack him up first. How many authors are hoping for something like this from their central characters?
Did Mr. Boj’s Creator make this satirist in the dark and bring him forth as a small pale quivering thing to lie upon his mother’s bosom—thereafter to be cared for in his tiny helplessness by parents working mightily for his well-being, upbringing, and comfort?
I’m ignorant of that part of his life, but I know he has made it to the vast age of, say, his mid-forties?— producing (since the bosom)—stories and worlds and scholarly writings. I really cannot picture Mr. Boj as a babe crawling around on the kitchen floor. But I can imagine him on his mother's back, giving her directions as she does the cooking. He's sucking from his sippy-cup—content just to let his gaze follow her provisions for his care.
His Author, however, is too intelligent to let childhood continue. His Author is pleased with a certain amount of fundamental caring-giving of Mr. Boj until he has basic skills in hand, such as driving a car and writing software.
So far was his Maker merciful.
But now. Now, (according to the description in his blog entry) it’s almost as if his Author is saying, OK. Yours is an excellent character I’m making here, now let’s put you through your paces, see what you can really do to make yours the best possible story. (Boj’s Author, a virtual child really, rubs His ...um... hands with delight and a starry twinkle in His innocent eye.)
Boj, my excellent character, Boj. Boj, I want you to carry me around the kitchen for a while as together we make supper. Basically, I’m going to lollygag around here in the carrier on your back, while you follow these simple directions. The truth is, well, I got tired of carrying you. I want you to give it a try for a bit, while I take frequent naps on your back.
See, I’ve got this bet with a playmate. He says you can’t do it without throwing me off your back. I say he’s a bit of a know-nothing, in for a surprise. Please don’t hold it against me, but he’s something of a nasty sort. He’ll try to trip you up, get you to stumble, toss me—that kind of thing. (He doesn’t seem to learn. We’ve had these kinds of wagers before and most times he gets it wrong. But let’s humor the absurd dastardly little fellow. He seems not to know any better and might have had a better upbringing himself, but apparently his parents spoiled him.) One of these days soon I’m going to stop playing with him altogether. You’ll see.
Anyhow. That’s how I re-imagine this online author’s struggles to write of late. Hopefully, my imagination hasn’t gotten away with me—I can fancy I’m being a friend when all the while I’m just being an ass.
You see, it’s that post by Mr. Boj about his troubles. It made me laugh. Oh, he really made me laugh. I felt bad about that. As a true virtual friend I should be crying. Saying things like, “God bless you for ever and ever!!” But, all the while—secretly? I wanted to see it in standup. I wanted to roll around on the floor in some venue, howling, breathless over his comedic delivery. I kept seeing it, smiling. There are parts that just—.
...Yes—but never negating—a play on “Footprints In The Sand.”
Note. I’ve been a writer for 60+ years. Seventy+ if you count rejection slips from Boys Life. I am not now a boy. Nor have I ever been a boy. And. I cannot afford to pay for subscriptions.
“I too have scars, who jest at wounds. ”
© S. Dorman December 2023
© S. Dorman December 2023