Writer's Block is a Myth

There is no such thing as writer's block. There are always ideas. Ideas lead to words. So there is no such thing as writer's block

But there is lack of focus. There is confusion that leads to lapses in clear thought.

And there is that painful gnawing at your brain that anything you put on screen will suck.

Which is worse than any so called blockage.

Blasted Snart

I'm reading a humor writing book. Here's a short piece I wrote months ago--before I knew what I was doing.

Blasted Snart

For a short, skinny, bespectacled kid, the school playground created two realities. One involved the opportunity to break free of the brainy kid label and let loose on the four-square and tetherball courts. The other reality involved embarrassment, ridicule and possible bodily harm. I preferred the former of the two realities. The problem was, while enjoying the fleeting euphoria of the first reality, experience told me the second wasn’t far behind. Part of it, I knew, was of my own making. While I was generally quiet and well-mannered, I had a bit of the devil in me. The devil typically affixed itself to my mouth, granting me a loose tongue and powerful lungs, like stereo speakers turned to eleven, eager to propel whatever ridiculous thing came to mind did a freefall to my larynx and sprang forth between my jawbones. Sometimes with the tongue, came a fist to the face. But I was funny.

It was a warm spring weekday. I was watching friends and enemies play a game of softball. In years past I had often joined in the pick-up softball games but in middle school I began enjoying tetherball. This particular day there was a long hot lunch line and I arrived at the tetherball court too late to help start a round robin tournament. Instead I watched from a distance while two kids rarely on the court took turns hurling the ball at each others’ heads and groins to the amusement of no one but themselves. I stood on the third base side of the softball diamond, waiting for something interesting to happen.

With the changing weather many kids were getting colds and then passing it on to other kids through sloppy kisses. In my case my skinny physique and perpetually inflamed sinuses made me a prime target for a virus and bacteria. No sloppy kisses needed.

I stood, sniffed, and tried to digest. I stifled a couple of sneezes but was feeling the buildup. I have always been a loud sneezer. I take after my mother. All of five foot flat, my mother is the loudest sneezer on the planet. People don’t flinch when she sneezes, they dive for cover. Car alarms are set off. Airplanes are forced into holding patterns. I come in a close second. While I waited for the choo-es to catch up with my ahhs, more people were gathering around the softball field, cheering friends on, calling all others dickshines.

It was time for the release. I didn’t have a tissue to catch any meddling mucus but I did have long sleeves. So I let the sneeze fly.

As my sneeze blasted, causing eardrums to burst open that instant, a lower, fuller sound broke through my opposite end. I farted. I farted and sneezed simultaneously . I snarted. For an instant I willed myself into believing the sneeze sound overpowered the fart. But seeing my fellow students gasp, yell, scream, run in the opposite direction, I was pushed into the latter of the playground realities.  I looked around with a who-did-that expression on my face. But the blood had already rushed to my head, turning my pasty face a deep red.

The points began. Then the giggles. There was no escaping it. When I took a step to the right, all the students—near and far—hopped, stepped, jumped to the right. When I went left, they went left. The circle around me grew larger but it was still a circle.

The combination of the blood rush, sinus decongestants, and gas smell was overwhelming. The next thing I remember, I was in class, enduring the judgmental stares and hushed gossiping the rest of the day.

That night I had time to consider what had happened. My body got in the way and I lost whatever credibility I had. In an instant. My tongue had been my weapon of choice. Now, it was my butt. Not my choice. Blasted snart.

But I realized I had a way to repair the damage. Instead of using my tongue to lash out, I would burrow inward, judge my faults, my idiotic actions, and ridiculous blunders—all with a wink and a smirk. The era of self-deprecation began.   And while the bullying didn’t stop on the short, skinny, bespectacled kid, the fists to the face stopped. The playground remained an arena of embarrassment, I could laugh about it. And make others laugh, too.

Six Words

I found Smith Mag's Six-Word Memoir while searching for writer sites. I go to it every so often, add a six-word memoir, and check out some of the others. I find it stirs the imagination and challenges me to be precise.

Here are some of the favorites I have written:

• Asked chiropractor for my attitude adjustment.
• "This-too-shall-pass." Doesn't. I finally caught on.
• My history degree: a quaint artifact.
• Sister became adult first. I'm older.
• Truck hit me. I bounced back.
• I can never quite finish my
• Killed time. Surrendered to authorities. Willingly.
• My body runs free of gluten.

Doritos Super Bowl Challenge

I was asst. director to Rob Hubbard for this commercial entered into the Doritos video contest. It was a blast to shoot. The resulting commercial is titled "Slumber Spies" and can be found on the Crash the Super Bowl site. http://www.crashthesuperbowl.com/#/gallery?video=14310

My Kind of Fame

Twelve years ago I had a dream that I was Bernie Taupin. When I woke up, I wasn't sure why I would have a dream I was Bernie Taupin.

Then, with sleep still in my eyes, I realized, Bernie Taupin is my idol. Not in the conventional sense. Sure he's written great lyrics throughout his 40-plus year partnership with Elton John. But what really interested me in him is his fame. He's wealthy, well respected, but not physically recognized. Imagine Elton John walking into a crowded room without being recognized. You can't. But Bernie?

That's my kind of fame.

Best of Bunny Gumbo

I'm looking forward to my play, "So-So Sorensen" being produced for the Best of Combat Theatre on December 17.

Hope you can join us for the fun.

Rewriting is the thing

After writing two complete versions of my full length play "Enter the Pigman," I have started a third version. From page one. I don't expect more than five pages of version 2 to make it into version three. Which, I guess, is why I'm calling these versions not drafts.

Over the years I've met so many people who have handed me a new draft of of play, so excited about the rewrites, and with the exception of a few word changes, it's the same.

That's not rewriting! That's copy editing (this isn't a knock on copy editing, I love copy editors. It's just a different process)!