To be honest writer’s block isn’t something I ever thought would be a problem for I have always been quite prolific and being an egotist, I believe I have an endless amount of opinions that I must enlighten unto the world. However, as of late I sit at my computer, write about two paragraphs and then have a panic attack followed by a series of disturbing voices that tell me my writing is pedantic, derivative and dull.
I usually argue with these voices over espresso in a small French café and, if I don’t get tossed out for yelling at empty chairs, the voices usually win the arguments. They claim I am not just a poor man’s version of S.J. Perelman, but an impoverished crack addict who sucks dicks for neurotic anecdotes that are long-winded and go nowhere. The voices claim I’d be better off emulating the works of V.C. Andrews and that my writing is better-suited for the elderly who have frozen bowels and need dribble to distract them from the pains of their grunting and groaning as they relieve themselves on cold porcelain toilets.
I have talked to my friends about these voices and they claim they are not separate entities but rather manifestations of my low self-esteem. However, I am certain they are real. I believe this because one voice has a thick Long Island accent, and when he isn’t speaking to me I can hear him eating corn chips and mumbling about kids today and how the Yankees spend too much for too little.
The other voice in my head is a five-year-old girl who has a penchant for calling me cocksucker. In fact that is all she ever says to me. Any time the Long Island voice tells me I am a lousy writer she just tags it with, “yeah cocksucker.” Only once has she ever said anything nice to me but I am almost certain she wasn’t speaking to me because my hair isn’t blonde and I am not busty.
The third voice rarely speaks, but when they do it is harsh and brings me to my knees with tears of humiliation. There is an androgynous quality to the third entity. At times the voice is lovely and lilting and other times it is harsh like an old sea captain. Once when I was writing in the midst of a bourbon haze this voice made a pass at me. I, in my blurred state, fell for it and what happened next I cannot share publicly for I may be sued for emotionally damaging those who read the tale. I can say any time hear the words “four fingers” I break out in tears.
Growing tired of these voices keeping me from writing, I decided to bring in a mediator to work out the situation. I thought it best to use the voice I call The Good Voice. This voice visits me once a year and tells me that that I am a genius and soon my writing will be praised by all.
The four voices met in my living room and immediately agreed I should not speak during the meeting. The three voices illustrated their point of how I am a lousy writer with graphs, slides, a short musical film and a poem. To my dismay, the Good Voice strongly agreed but motioned they allow me to write one more piece without their distraction and then after that, they could taunt me until I was emotionally crippled and forced to admit I will spend the rest of my days wallowing in mediocrity.
So I guess in short this is the last piece I will write without the evil voices distracting me. Oddly, as I type this last sentence the little girl voice is calling me a cocksucker while the third voice plays with my breasts.