Mister Creative

When I started blogging again, I thought the words would come easily.  Well, perhaps “easily” is an overstatement.  I’ve always agonized over what I’m writing, or to be more precise, what I’m going to write.

I put a lot of time and effort into mentally preparing myself for the task of putting words on paper (or into keyboard if the longhand imagery isn’t working for you).  When I finally feel I’m ready, I’m usually so frustrated by the whole process I just want to get it over with.  What ends up on my blog is either a worthwhile read or it isn’t.
I convince myself that the work can stand on its own merits.  It doesn’t need any of that window that editing and proofreading provide.
In short, the road to mediocrity is full of potholes.  That doesn’t have to matter though.  When I hit my stride, I’m able to make it down that bumpy road in a matter of hours or days rather than weeks or months.  It doesn’t matter that I’m seemingly incapable of writing about anything except drinking binges, homicide, or poop, at least not to me.
I think what I need to do is get over myself.  Those who write amusing gibberish aren’t allowed to behave like they’re tortured artists.  Besides, it’s not like anybody reads my stuff anyway.

A Modern Miracle Play in One Act

Heath N. Savage
Dramatis Personae
Harold Camping
Ms. Flockhart
The setting is Harold Camping’s office at Family Radio in
Oakland, CA.  There is a line graph on a wooden stand in
the corner of the room.  It showed a  freefall in listeners
since May 21.   On the desk, there is an empty tray where
donation vouchers are supposed to go.  Next to it is another
tray for unpaid bills, this one overflowing.  Next to the trays
is a desk calendar showing a date of  October 20, 2011.
The “On Air” light over the office door has been turned off.
The clock on the wall says it is 11:55 p.m.
Harold Camping, President of Family Radio, is seated at
his desk.  Standing next to him is  Ms. Flockhart, a cleaner in
Harold Camping’s employ.  She is holding a feather duster
but will provide no exposition during the play.
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Gumby who?
Gumby the End Times.