Over the last few years, I’ve learned to write anywhere. Being part meathead, there’s a part of me that’s a limit-pushing masochist. The way that iterates into writing is I try and see if I can write in different environments; I’ve done it around people, I’ve done it TALKING to people, with and without coffee, with and without music, etcetera etcetera.
I know—not relevant. I’m just warming up the old “descriptor muscles”…engaging in the practice of mental articulation, which translates into putting concise, attention-catching thoughts onto the page. Right now I’m at Starbucks, typing away, letting stories about robots and barbarians flow through my fingers into my computer. Standard author stuff, right?
Apparently, my opinion doesn’t extend to all writers. A handful of shadows darken my screen, and a heavy, rough voice says:
“We’re the Content Police. No content allowed, fuck-face—not unless it fits within the hackneyed environs of today’s attention-deprived, hyper-idealized, social media-driven communications.”
I look up from the screen, canvassing the gang of angry nerds with a skeptical gaze. “What the fuck?”
“Open letters and LOLspeak—that’s all you’re allowed to write. They’re the revolution, man; they’re gonna drive society forward into a new Golden Ag—”
“Tell that to my droopy, pendulous balls,” I retort. “They shrivel at the thought of your neutered, politically correct self-expression. Wanna be an evangelist? Go to church. In the meantime, get the fuck out of my face.”
Content Cop reddens with rage. “BEAT HIM!” he howls. “BEAT HIM UNTIL HE ADMITS HE’S WRONG!”
FUCK! They surge toward me in a terrifying wave of unexamined, platitudinal banality. No options left. I open my eReader to Echo, activating its reality distortion powers. Magic flash.
“Vapid FUCKERS!” Ernest Hemingway bursts through the wall. He’s shirtless—all jiggly-bellied, hairy-chested, and man-bearded. He’s also clutching a flask of whiskey in each hand, and wearing a pair of uncomfortably tight, old-school strongman pants.
Hemingway takes a swig from each flask, emptying them both in less than a second. He flips them around with a quick half-spin—now he’s holding them like he’s a dual-wielding, Elven Blade Singer.
“Let’s dance,” he hisses.
Content Cop straightens up and smirks. “You want a piece of us, old man?”
“Not just a piece…” A shadow falls across his eyes.
“I WANT THE WHOLE FUCKING THING! RUAAAAAAHHHH!!!!”
He charges them, they charge him, and he begins beating their ass like there’s no tomorrow. The whiskey flasks rise and fall, rise and fall, knocking out teeth and eyeballs with brutal efficiency.
I’m tempted to masturbate, but come on, bro…I save that for soccer moms.
Kent Wayne wins again! Ha HA! 😀
Have you been accosted by a bunch of open-letter enthusiasts and brain-dead heathens? Never fear! Get Echo Vol. 1 on Kindle here: Vol. 1 on Kindle. Vol. 2 on Kindle here: Vol.2 on Kindle Vol. 3 on Kindle here: Vol. 3 on Kindle Vol.4 on Kindle here: Vol. 4 on Kindle Echo Omnibus here: Echo Omnibus Echo Vol. 1 & 2 Combined Edition here: Combined Edition Musings, Volume 1 is available here: Musings, Volume 1 If you wanna hear me babble on about anything and everything, and strain my FREAKIN’ BRAIN, then here’s a link to my podcast: Strained Brains! It is on iTunes, Stitcher, Spotify, and Google Play! Please give it a listen and a five-star review! Here’s the miscellaneous gear that I use to try and become an uber-human: Optimization, and last but not least, my buddy Jumar Balacy has made a supercool microsite at kentwaynebrain.com! Go check out his computer-based wizardry 🙂 🙂 😀
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