the words…they don’t come

People ask me with regularity why I don’t write a book, or they suggest that I should, or they demand it. Or whatever. The subject comes up. Invariably I answer “because my constitution isn’t strong enough for alcoholism”, trying to conjure images of say Dashiel Hammet pounding away at his trusty Underwood will pounding away at his trusty bottle of rye.
You know what I mean.
and of course it should be noted that this website is not the only example in existence of my writing. So before you think “christ, the only thing this bitch can write about is dogs and her own butt” think again.
No, wait, you might be right. I enjoy writing. Or more specifically, I enjoy words. I love a dry wit and a good turn of phrase, I love wordplay. I love people who not only write well, but creatively and with passion.
but it’s not enough to be able to fingerfuck the english language into a fenzied orgasm. A good turn of phrase, like a pretty smile or a good pair of tits will really only get you so far.
The real reason why I do not want to write a novel is because, quite honestly, I have nothing to write about. Anything I do write would probably be as interesting as one of those Oprah book club emo-fests. You know the ones where ‘stark circumstances’ and ‘inner strength’ become emotional crutches for the wiener set?
Or even worse, I could totally see me writing one of those terrible chick-lit books with the garrish pink cover and the woozily stylized drawing of sunglasses or flip-flops. Yeah, fuck that.
So, what I’m saying is that I recognize in advance the utter lack of meaningful story in my head. I think Norman Mailer recently said that the great american novel is dead, and I think he might be right.
Or at least mine is.