“A writer is a person for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.”
— Thomas Mann
There are a nearly infinite number of things that have been written about the process of writing. This is what happens when a bunch of eloquent but essentially self-centered assholes reflect at great length on the thing they spend most of their time doing. There are many fewer eloquent encapsulations about, say, woodworking being hard, or driving a truck being hard, because these two professions rightly assume no one really cares that the act they engage with regularly has unique challenges of the body and mind.
Now, here is a poem about writing poems.
Because this is the fuck of it, right? Much of the advice writers give other writers is really good advice. We all should take the time to write for an hour a day. We all should structure our daily routine around making time for the creation moment. We all should sacrifice a small animal to Baal before we … ok, maybe I’ve read too much advice about writing. However, some of us are writers who feel driven to achieve, who wake up every morning with the sole desire to write driving then out of bed and into their day. Others of us are lazy shits who find regular production off anything this side of new hair follicles pretty exhausting. I think that this sort of project reveals that I’m more in the second category then any of us are totally happy with.
So, I’ll leave you with one more reflection on the project we’re working on here – and yes, this is all still reflections on a once-every-other-day-and-not-even-on-weekends-lego-blog:
All writers are vain, selfish and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives lies a mystery. Writing a book is a long, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.
— George Orwell
Basically, I’m saying that Jen and I are in the same boat as Faulkner. I understand why all the greats are driven to drink.
Ok, on to the actual legos. The meat of an increasingly Vegan storyline. There was no blogs on friday, which means that you all are in for a torrent of day boxes over the course of these 24 hours. As the Dude once said: “is it… what day of the week is it again?”
I was traveling again, so my trusty desk bound comrade was once again pressed into service to email me the different lego pics. Lets see what we got:
Hmmm, ok. Pretty innaciouse. A new Mini-Fig, a continued absurd ratio of weapons to people, and a new pet. This is pretty easy to… wait. Why am I getting more texts from Jen? Oh. Ok.
Ahhh, fellating Cal Ripken. She does know me well.
Ok, sure. There’s one way to answer this challenge. There’s always the easy answer when one introduces a pig. We could, if we all wanted, just revert to this:
After a short 4 hour long side trip watching SuperTroopers videos on Youtube, where are we now? Ive got the “yes, and…” rule clearly in play here, but (perhaps due to the general anatomic uncertainty that has been visited on all Lego kind) I think I have some wiggle roo… err… that I can find a work around before we launch right back into the bestiality. Lets see where this takes us.
Hal was having just a bummer of a no good day. He paced over to his window, and back again, sat down and put his head in his hands, got up and began to pace again. His dinner lay untouched on his princely dining table, and his usual immaculate clothing was rumpled and unkempt.
Hal’s best friend – and in many ways sole confident in life – was a pig that he’d raised by hand from a very tender hage. Christened Queen Hazpethabital of the tallest pines, slayer of turnips and mistress of all the four winds, or “Ms. Wiggles” for short, she was sitting happily in her pen down below. What she didn’t know – in fact had no ability to understand – was that the castle vet had recently delivered a terrible diagnosis.
Porcine cancer is fast and inevitable, and the vet had suggested that Ms. Wiggles be put down before things got much further. Hal knew what he had to do. He’d just been putting it off all day. Still, there was nothing for it – he had his servants ready some of his favorite swords for the occasion. He picked one that looked particularly sharp, and headed down to the pen.
After a lengthy goodbye and some candied apples, Hal gave ms. Wiggles one final awkward hug, and, as his eyes filled with tears, drew his sword. As he stood over his best friend to deliver the killing blow, however, Hal heard someone begin shrieking about things rising. It sounded a little bit like his stepmother. Grateful for anything to distract him from his grim act, Hal staid his executioners hand.
“Come on, Wigs, let’s see what gas ma’s undies in a bunch” said Hal. Ms. Wiggles grunted happily and rolled over to have her belly scratched, so Hal, sword in hand, went to see what was going on.
On entering the throne room, Hal knew immediately that today could end up taking a turn for the awesome. His stepmother, Lee the Overexplanitory, stood at the foot of his father’s throne, surrounded by Skeletons. While this particular batch of bad-guys appeared to all be talking at great length to each other about minutia, Hal knew danger when he saw it.
He had always had a flair for the dramatic, and had worked out a series of potential theme songs for just this sort of heroic situation. He started humming one now: “Ba-ba-baddaditd-dah, bah bah, baddaditd-dah” Yes, that was about right. Hal raised his sword and charged. “Baaaa BUM! dadadadada BUM!” Bones and skulls bounced hither and yon. Skeletons, looking remarkably confused considering their absence of faces, scrambled about looking for weapons. “Baaaa ba ba ba ba ba bummmm”.
Suddenly, Hal stopped. He knew his stepmother had always had something of a blue streak, but why was she cursing at him and waving her arms about? And who was this scared looking peasant who had just come sprinting into the room, being chased by a skeleton with no arms?