Being a writer gives you a taste of Heaven and an eat-all-you-can buffet of Hell. There is nothing to match the exquisite pleasure and satisfaction I felt last week, when I finally completed the first draft of a difficult chapter on the cultural history of the penis. But the next day I was plunged into the abyss of despair as I struggled to get my next chapter even started. And a week later I am not much further on. The annoying thing is that I kind of know what I want to write, but for some reason seem totally incapable of sitting still long enough to give it a go.
I caught a bit of the fly on the wall documentary about Rob Newmans attempt to write a novel, last night and recognised much of the torment he was going through. How he spent a day changing his office and his bedroom around, hoping this would give him a fresh start, an impetus to carry on, but most importantly a feeling of actually having achieved something. The way he got a new desk in the belief that that would somehow exude magical ideas. All the sticking bits of paper on the walls Ive been there, believe me.
All the prevarication, the totemism.
I also empathised with the changes in appearance, weight and mental state. This job can surely take its toll. (although Rob seemed to look better the further he got)
Writing can be like pulling teeth. Not out of your mouth. That would be easy. Writing is like pulling teeth out of your genitals. Its like being bitten in the cock and testicles by a massive radioactive rodent and then trying to prise its jaws away from you, only to find that when you finally manage to (after a week or so of struggle) , its adamantine teeth have come loose from its gums and are still piercing your bleeding and mutilated genitalia. And when you attempt to pull them out you find they are burning, white hot and also have little barbs on them, like fishing hooks and they are exuding acid and the AIDS virus into your blood.
Its exactly like that. If you cant be bothered to try writing, just do that instead and youll know what my job is like.
The problem is that finishing writing is like waking up to find that the whole radioactive rodent thing was a dream, and that far from being mutilated and full of acid and disease, your cock has miraculously doubled in length and is studded with strategically placed jewels which simultaneously make you the greatest lover in the world and the richest man who has ever lived.
Which is why the very next day you willingly and arrogantly place your knob into a cage of leprous monkeys with eyes that shoot lasers and which live on a diet of over-sized jewel encrusted genitalia.
Really this metaphor may sound ridiculous, but it is uncannily accurate (and also demonstrates the extent to which male genitalia now rule my world).
Unfortunately (or fortunately because this was a bit like living the nightmare of my own life as entertainment), I fell asleep part way through the Newman documentay, but apparently even though he got his book finished, he hasnt got a publisher yet, which is a shame (though I am tempted to say he should just put it up on the internet, none of us need publishers any more. Though the downside of that is that you wont get paid. Thats the good thing about publishers)
When I awoke I spent a day of harrumphing around, eating bagels and watching Diagnosis Murder and totally failing to make any progress. I thought about buying a new desk.
Which I think you will find when you die (if youve been bad) is exactly what Satan has waiting for you in Hades.
When will this torture be over?
