…Metablogging at it’s Finest

Okay, how about this for an experiment. I’ve got one hour in which to write whatever the hell I like, be it good, bad or completely nonsensical. This is a fairly simple experiment and I’ve had the good will to let you see the results.

Just to set the scene, I’m sitting at my desk, with a pose-able lamp shining down on the keyboard, adding a very noir atmosphere to the proceedings. I feel I should be smoking a cigarette and slugging from a fifth of bourbon. But I’m not, because I only have an hour and it’s not for me to waste time.

I’ve done enough of that already.

It’s been one of those weeks in which nothing happened. That’s completely my own fault so I can’t really complain, but consider it a stated point. Since nothing has happened, or rather, I haven’t done anything, I find myself at something of a loss when it comes to writing some content for this god-forsaken blog.

I could tell you about the two and a half seasons of Doctor Who that I shamelessly watched, but I know you don’t care and if you did care, you have probably already watched them yourself, so no need for a synopsis.

I could tell you about the….the, um…oh my God, all I’ve done is watch Doctor Who and go to work for a week. I’d be really depressed if I thought it was a complete waste of time but I rather like Doctor Who, and even if I’d seen the majority of the episodes before, they were just as entertaining the second time ’round.

But this is a new week, a fresh start and from here on in, anything can happen. That’s either optimism or extreme paranoia, I haven’t decided yet.

…10 minutes gone…

…12 minutes gone…

That’s what they call a fugue state. It’s a period of time in which the subject loses all awareness of their surroundings and either allows another personality to run the show for said time, or stares blankly at a point in space, returning to reality only when they feel spit trickling from the sides of their mouths. I fall into the latter category.

Come on, man, think, you’re losing them.

Okay…

…17 minutes gone…

God this experiment isn’t going too well.

If I just keep on typing, something is bound to happen, that’s how it works, right? Well, maybe not, I’m sure that a real writer would have a topic chosen before sitting down to write anything. Not only that, but they would have done countless hours of research to make sure that they have their facts right and don’t have to prattle on for, say, an hour, without accomplishing anything.

Okay, problem number one has been defined.

This is progress.

So what I need is a subject.

The subject of today’s entry is, in fact, today’s entry. It’s metablogging at it’s finest. In today’s entry, I have decided to write about writing the entry that I intend to publish today. So far, it has been an enlightening experience. I started out full of juice and with very good intentions but, as you have seen, it didn’t take long for me to realise that I was severely unprepared, having neither cigarette, nor bourbon.

Problem number two, defined.

Writers smoke and drink. Fact. If I want to be a writer, I must act like a writer. Now, contrary to popular opinion, a real writer spends hardly any time writing. Instead, they linger in dark rooms waiting for someone to come along and photograph them holding a cigarette somewhere near their face.

Observe.

 

Now, if  they’d been writing at the time, they wouldn’t have been able to hold the cigarette and thus, would cease to be writers.

I hope you’re all taking notes, because this is important.

So, you have your topic ready, your glass of whiskey sitting beside your ashtray, what now? You need a pen, right?

WRONG!

You need a gun. Because nobody will take you seriously if they don’t think that there’s a possibility of you blowing your brains out at any time. People like a writer who isn’t afraid to die. If they get the slightest whiff of impending suicide, they’ll rush to the nearest shop to buy your first edition hardback with the intention of forging an autograph inside and flogging it on eBay before your gun stops smoking.

What?

Proof?

Hunter S. Thompson, Ernest Hemingway…

I was going to use Yukio Mishima as an example too but he didn’t shoot himself -  he decided to go traditional and performed emergency surgery on his stomach without ever planning to stitch it back up.

Well, here we are at the end of the hour. Hope it was as fun for you as it was cringingly awful for me. I welcome any suggestions for a topic that I can hack to death over the course of an hour for the next fun-filled entry.