Thursday, March 14, 2013

Much Ado About Nothing

Well, I must be losing my mind. I stayed up until after midnight last night re-writing a post I’d forgotten I published last December. I almost plagiarized myself.
Who does that??
I guess I’m in a blogfog. There’ve been signs, of course. I need to write, but where’s the inspiration?  I tried a blog writing course, but the lessons got lost in my email.  And my email.  Don’t get me started.  Does the number 437 mean anything to you?  Me neither.  By this evening it will have warped into 521 unread messages, and 437 will just be a fond memory.
It’s a lonely, desolate place, this writing wilderness.  “I have so much to say!” I told my better half once. He already knew that, of course—I’ve bent his ear so many times he looks like a basset hound. “Good boy, Rob,” I told him, and patted him on the head for listening again. 
But now that I’m facing a reservoir drained of ideas, I find myself sitting at Starbucks, drowning my sorrows in coffee-flavored half-and-half. That could lead to something, I guess—a scientific study of the effects of caffeine on a paralyzed brain, for example. Or I could count how many white cars go through the drive-thru before I switch from coffee to iced tea. Maybe I could blather the perspective of a non-Catholic on the appointment of a new pope.  Sounds dangerous.  Even heathens rejoiced when white smoke poured out of that chimney yesterday. 
Maybe I should give up writing and go back to . . . what was I doing before I contracted this deadly disorder?  French 201? Raising children? Laundry? Well, French would still be fun, but this computer doesn’t know an accent grave from an accent aigu. It’s been five years since I conjugated a verb—I don’t think I could even write a complete Francophile sentence without insulting a Parisian somewhere. Then again, they seem to enjoy being offended. I’ll re-consider that one.
Last night I dreamed of a fictional novel idea. But I don’t want to write fiction.  I just want to write embellished non-fiction.  I can’t make things up that are worth reading. That won’t sell! Oh, wait a minute. Fiction does sell. Non-fiction doesn’t sell. That’s how tabloids stay in business.
Hmm.  Well, that’s a thought.  Maybe it’s time to make up a story about nothing.  It worked for Jerry Seinfeld, and look how successful he is.  Nothing sells like nothing.  I just need to stop writing about anything and everything and stick with nothing which is probably the way to something.
I got it. After carrying on here with almost five hundred words about nothing, I know what to do with my life.
I’m going into politics. When it comes to talking about nothing, I’m a natural.

Photo courtesy of Buhny's photostream at


  1. hi.

    bloghopped from Blog Carnival.

    you are a natural but not on talking about nothing. it's fun learning new words. blogfog it is for me. :)

    1. Well, thanks for bloghopping over here! I hope you stop in again soon. Blogfog or not, I can't seem to stop myself from blathering about something here.

      Take care!