In response to Mr. Highland’s challenge to come up with a counter point to my list of the fringe benefits of writing, I offer to you, the fringe detriments of writing:

• Not enough people worship me. Jesus had a whole pool of suckers to write for him. Am I comparing myself to Jesus? Yes. Which brings me to…
• An inflated ego brings nothing but misery. But on someone as awesome as me, misery looks damn good.
• Something can easily take years to write, but can be read and forgotten in hours (wow, that was a bit of an honest one. I wasn’t expecting that)
• If you are so brash as to call your writing an art-form, very few people will be interested. People who don’t care for art will change the subject. People who don’t write but enjoy art will simply not believe you. And people who do write and do enjoy art will immediately resent you for stealing their form. Those few that do take interest will likely wane once you start describing character motivations and narrative arc. The trick, I think, is to write about boobs.
• If the page is a reflection of your soul, as hippy writers like to say, then a writer must be fully aware and be willing to accept that your life and soul both suck. Get a job, hippy!
• Paper cuts are a job hazard. Pen stabbings are too. Computer maulings happen. I once choked on the “T” key.  These are all self-inflicted. For fuck’s sake, I sit in front of a computer for hours each day; I go mad!
• One man’s masterpiece is another man’s throw-in to offload a used lawn mower at his yard sale.
• When caught burrowing in a dumpster, the excuse “it’s research for a project” only works once. Subsequent times require the truth: “I’m a writer, so I am homeless.”

When my lovely wife asked what I wanted for Father’s Day, I replied quite simply: a day to myself. Fearing that the request may imply that my primary desire was to spend the day away from my family, I quickly explained that I wanted the day to write. I’ve been spoiled by the frantic life of parenthood, being able to blame my lack of productivity on the burdens of being a father. “Why haven’t you finished the first draft of your world-changing novel?” my non-existent editor asks. “Well you see, sir, I have this child…” But I know the days of those lies must end. I only hurt myself when I don’t get shit done.

My beautiful wife has allowed me the entire day. I’ll be spending the time at her parent’s house where I can be assured just enough discomfort to keep me isolated to the page (they are out of town; I’m not saying that they make me uncomfortable, just that being in their house alone will be a bit weird and that I won’t be tempted to explore the area for ways to derail any progress).

My goal is to cough up 5,000 words. But not just any words, truly good words. Even 5,000 draft-quality words would be a feat, so planning on just as many print-quality words means I’ll have to cut away many of my bad habits. I check my email too often. I refill my coffee cup too much. Basically, I’ll use any excuse to step away from the page. Not today. How? I’ll be taking on a few tips from my friend Axel Taiari:

Kill your internet connection, only bring Tom Waits albums, rock some caffeine/nicotine, have food/sandwiches/snacks prepared in advance, forget about showering, and for the love of god, if anyone disturbs you and breaks your flow, it should be legal to stab them right between the eyes.

Here’s the survival gear:

• An old-fashioned notebook – This will hopefully keep me from my computer and by that, the internet.
• My computer – yeah, sorta self-defeating considering the above item, but I’ll use it primarily for morale-boosting updates via twitter and similar ego-maniacal social mediums. Maybe I’ll wear the winner shirt I made (above) with my face on it to really tell the virtual world how awesome I am.
• Headphones – I’ll likely replace Axel’s Tom Waits suggestion with Bohren und der Club of Gore, only because vocals can be distracting. Even a casual search on this site will show how much I love Tom Waits, so normally, he’d be my life’s soundtrack.
• Prepared food – I don’t want even the need for nutrition to be an excuse to lift my fat ass off the chair.
• Cigars – I think it will be too hot tomorrow to enjoy any smoke, but just in case, I’d like to have a couple think-sessions away from the paper, fueled by some delicious ACID cigarillos.
• Coffee
• A knife – for stabbing right between the eyes.

Wish me luck. But don’t bother me A-holes!

Most of you probably don’t know this, but secretly, I am not the cunning stallion that I appear to be. Sure, I am a sexy reader, I can do the robot worm electric slide, and I dress in the finest clothes straight from snazzy street (Snazzy and 14th Avenue is where the local Salvation Army clothing depot is located; they always have the hippest fanny packs). But underneath all of this slathered-upon cool, I carry a potentially social-life threatening secret. I like signed books.

Sure, it’s not the most embarrassing collection out there. I know a kindergartner who collects rocks. Seriously. And not even cool rocks, either. Regular, gravel-style gray lumps of compressed sediment nonsense. I drove him down a country road once and his head exploded.

But this post isn’t about dumb kids. It’s about dumb adults. Here’s my collection for all of you to pick through and criticize.

A few of my most treasured (though I love all my babies):

• Jesus’ Son by Denis Johnson (personally inscribed)
• The Fifty-Year Sword by Mark Z. Danielewski (super-rare
• Altmann’s Tongue by Brian Evenson (first edition)
• Survivor by Chuck Palahniuk (first edition)

Anyone else out there collect signed books? What are your treasures?

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