The Cigarette Vignettes – Writing

Josh Blockwell’s The Cigarette Vignettes return with a serious case of writer’s block.

 

It’s 2:29AM, I’m halfway through a pack of Lucky Strikes and onto my sixth black coffee this evening and I still can’t think of anything to write.  I thought this was supposed to be easy? Right now I’d much rather procrastinate in front of early morning TV, read a book, read yesterday’s paper, pretty much anything rather than write. I light another cigarette, I’ve got a feeling my lungs are going to give out soon, either that or the apartment will fill with smoke and I’ll suffocate. Still, a trip to the emergency room would probably be better than trying to write.

I’ve heard that Kerouac wrote On The Road in one frenzied sitting, just pouring out ideas onto one massive scroll for a week straight. That has to the complete opposite of what I’m doing tonight. I’ve paced my apartment, just fiddling with random ornaments and calling old friends. I think I’ve managed to hammer out about three lines in the last two hours. When I’m walking around downtown, dining out, I think of all these ideas, all these things to write down, but when I finally get some time to actually write, I draw blanks, I can’t concentrate. Sounds like a good metaphor for my sex life, really.

I think I’ve re-drafted the last paragraph over a hundred times now. It either seems too pretentious, too dramatic or too boring. That’s the thing, it seems like i’m writing a novel in which nothing happens. I have no idea where my characters are going, what they’ll be doing in the next chapter, or how i’m going to end the story. I suppose that’s true to life, a whole lot of nothing happens and then it ends abruptly, but that certainly doesn’t make good reading.

I pour myself another coffee, I’m pretty certain I’m going to be awake until tomorrow evening at this rate. They’ve started saying that a high caffeine intake decreases chances of conception. That’s great, at this rate I’ve got a nasty feeling that my sperm are currently belly up and swimming in the wrong direction. That could be a good thing actually, I’m not even sure if I want kids, I’d be a terrible father, I can’t even catch the simplest of throws. Last week I almost put a television through trying to catch a jar of oregano. I’d be the laughing stock of the playground, I can picture the scene now. Kids with names like Chip, Brick and Chad would exclude him from baseball or football because his old man can’t catch a ball. I guess it’d be a harsh reminder of my own childhood. I remember my Dad muttering angrily as he drove Mr Johnson to the ER after I put his jaw out with a wayward pitch. Yeah, kids are definitely out of the question.

I think of calling Fiona, maybe I could stomach a conversation with her right now. I look at her things on my floor, think better of it, and call it a night. I’m moving out in two days, I need to get some rest.