Fighting the Write Fight

Sure, have a seat there. Oh, him? Just brush him onto the floor. Oh! Ha! I'm sorry about that. He's not declawed. We'll get you some peroxide and gauze in a few minutes.

I'm glad you were able to come by and listen to me for a bit. I've talked about it before, so I'm sure you're aware of my, uh, brain issues.

No, please! It's not contagious. You can come back. If you start feeling lightheaded, it's probably nothing more than blood loss. This can easily be reversed by a technique called "blood finding," I assure you.

It's not a disease, at least not one that I've heard about before, but it seems that instead of a brain, I've got a whiny 3-year-old. I'm sure that sounds preposterous, given the embryological impossibilities involved, but hear me out.

I like to write. I'm not entirely sure that I would become suicidal if I were ever forced to stop, but I think that has more to do with being unable to imagine someone forcing me to stop writing. I don't know how they'd do it. Snap all my pencils? Rearrange all the letters on my keyboard? Fill my Writey Room with bats?

All that would do is make me mildly sullen. In the case of bats, I wouldn't be so much discouraged from writing as I would be happy to have a very interesting situation to tell folks about.

If they really wanted to me to stop writing, they would find some way to give my brain even more control over me than it already has. It's a cantankerous little beast, my brain. Like it never gets enough naptime, and it's always hungry.

"I want to write a story!" I'll say.

Bleah, my brain will reply. Don't wanna.

"Come on. It'll be fun! I'll give you a cookie afterward." I usually try positive reinforcement before I resort to beatings. I figure if it works on real 3-year-olds, it might work on my brain too.

Can't we just go play the Xbox instead? I'm tired, and the last stuff you forced me to help you write sucked.

Kids and their video games! It's not that games are particularly bad for you, I believe, but that playing them, with a few notable exceptions, reminds you that there are a lot of stupid people out there who get paid a lot. That kind of thing can depress a fella, and make him want to go write about bats.

"Look. What if I promise that this piece will be really, really good? I can even do another Crispy the Lion post. You liked him, right?"

You're a douchepuppy.

"So now we're resorting to name-calling? Don't you make me come in there! I want to write something, and if you're not going to help, then I'm going to just leave you here for the seagulls and go do it by myself. Is that what you want?"

Want ice cream. Hmph.

"You're jolly well not going to get ice cream after the way you've behaved, mister."

It goes on like this until either my brain wins and we both just go watch TV or catch up on the chores (which don't usually involve my brain) or I win and we go write. Someday I hope the little bastard will grow up and I can really buckle down.

Usually you can tell when I've been writing without the help of my brain, can't you?

What's that? Yes, you're right. It is getting quite late, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline your invitation to "shoot that thing," as you've so delicately put it. He eats bugs, you see, which is an invaluable service I'd as soon not lose.

Please give my regards to the tetanus shot man, won't you?