Author: Glenn Hauman

I resent the way this Administration makes me think like a nutbar conspiracy theorist.

My first thought after hearing was “random bomber.”

My second was “Trump fan going after the New York Times.”

My third was “Trump fan trying to distract from sex assault accusers on Today.”

There’s no such thing as “musician’s block.”

You sit down and you play the song. If you’re recording it, you can go back and listen where you missed the note, where you were having trouble, what have you. You can learn and try to play it better next time.

But you play the song. You don’t go slow to muddle through; if you have any facility at all with the instrument– you certainly don’t go slower if you’re just singing along, you always sing at your intended tempo, unless you’re fumbling over words in a speed rap.

You just do it. You perform.

Yes, you can go back later and tweak the hell out of it. And you probably should. But there’s nothing like just going out there and belting it out.

It may benefit you to think of writing the same way.

Try not to agonize over what the words are going to be, what you’re going to say. Just start writing, and trust in yourself to write the next word the same way that you sing the next note.

“But it’s not the same!” you cry. “In music, there’s– well, music! Sheet music that you can read!”

That’s true. But if you have some idea of what you’re doing, you don’t need the music to play, certainly not if you’re just hacking around– you know the song well enough. And if you’re familiar with the concept of a “fake book”, you don’t even have the full sheet music– you’ve got some simple chord notes and maybe a melody line.

The point is– just play. Get up and get out there and write, even if it’s just for the duration of a three minute pop song. You can do that. I’m doing that right now, and LOOK! Three hundred words, more or less effortlessly.

Yeah, maybe not my most brilliant or deathless prose. But still– it’s done. It’s here. It’s recorded. Maybe I’ll go back and rewrite, maybe I won’t. The goal is just to get out there and produce something, just get things moving. Doesn’t have to be witty, although some of your natural wit will come through, it’s your style after all that will be in evidence. But the point is that you’ll get it on the page.

And that’s really what you’re concerned about, what you want to break.

C’mon. A pop song. If you’re really in the zone as you start, you’ll get to that rock guitar solo and you’ll just keep wailing. Imagine you’re Pete Townsend on stage, just hammering through. (Or maybe someone more current.) You can do it, preferably without tossing your instrument on the ground in a fit of destruction. Most writers can’t afford to do that.

(Okay, Neil Gaiman does. But he’s gotta keep up appearances.)

Seriously. Just sit down and play. Be that rock star writer you’ve always wanted to be. Just play like you’re on stage in front of a cr– no, don’t tell me you don’t know how, I’ve seen you in the shower.

Metaphorically, I mean.

So what if the words are wrong? I’ve heard you in the shower too. “Big Old Jed had a light on?” Fix it in editing.

C’mon. Give it a shot. You’ll be surprised what you create. And with the right attitude and luck, you may never hit a writing block again.

by Glenn Hauman & David Mack

If you were a puppy, my sweet, you would be a wild one. You’d be big and neutered, just like human-you. You’d bound from place to place, unburdened by any thought of consequences, full of energy and bereft of conscience. Some would delight in your antics, your perverse rejection of dignity. Others would quail from your manic slobbering and call you a nuisance, but you would be excused, because that’s just how puppies behave.

If you were a wild puppy, I’d hear you yelp. I’d bear your endless braying and wonder what you were going on about. Sometimes you’d growl at people passing by, innocent people doing things you didn’t understand or thought dangerous, and you’d bare your tiny fangs in an impotent snarl. Other times, you’d bark at shadows or at nothing at all, and I would imagine that in your head you were facing down dinosaurs with mighty roars. You’d be crazy-brave.

If you were crazy-brave, you’d be impossible to housebreak. No matter how many times I tried, you’d have a mad streak in you, which would become a different streak on the floor. You’d confound me by defecating in your own den, devouring your mess, and doing it all again. I would do my best to help you stop, but you would be defiant, my sweet. You would become angry and think I was trying to stop you from doing anything you wanted, at any place and any time. And that would make you sad.

If you were sad, I’d try to make you happy again. I’d add something solid to your imbalanced diet of red meat. I’d give you a chew toy to see if it cheered you up, hoping that having something to gnaw on would satisfy you. I would enter you in a dog show, but no award would suit you. You’re too proud to be placated by such small gestures; you would never be satisfied with any bones thrown your way. You’d resist my advice until you made yourself sick.

If you got sick, I’d take care of you. I’d take you to the vet and get you all the medicine you needed, and I’d be on the watch for any of the horrible diseases you could get: Lyme disease. Worms. Fleas and mites. Arthritis. Puppy strangles. Parvovirus. But you’d slip your leash, flee into the night, make friends with the wrong animals, and come home infected with rabies.

If you came home infected with rabies, I’d watch, helpless, as you twitched and foamed at the mouth. I’d stay back as you lashed out at nearby objects, attacking and biting anything in range, trying to infect everything around you with the very thing that has driven you mad. I would try to soothe you as your voice became dry and rough and hoarse, the spasms of the muscles in your throat degrading your bark to a miserable “chorf.” I’d be heartbroken as the disease consumed your brain, and I’d wish there was something, anything, I could do to free you from its madness.

If I could free you from your madness, we’d both see you’re not really rabid, that you do what you do with the power of reason. We’d know you were once a thinking human being, responsible for your own actions—an honor you sacrificed to become this gibbering beast I can’t understand. I still wouldn’t know what you hoped to become. I couldn’t tell if your plans went ass-over-teakettle or if you planned to become this all along. I’d know you once were human, but that you chose to turn your back on that for reasons known only to you… to become something different.

If you became something different, all you’d do is howl strange love songs to your legions of the spittle-flecked, and you’d respond to nothing but dog whistles. Even so, in spite of evidence and experience, I’d try to reason with you.

If I tried to reason with you, I would soon discover it to be in vain. I’d realize you thought your fury would make you big and strong, and maybe you’d fool more than a few, but I would see the truth: I’d see that you’d shrunk, your stature diminished by your swelling savagery. You’d still think yourself a creature of courage and strength and righteousness, whose claws and fangs intimidate your foes effortlessly, but your anger and delirium and weakness would only make you an object of scorn, a walking tragedy defined by wiser souls than you. Honor and glory would desert you, and all you would be left with are your regrets and your incurable rabies.

If you were afflicted with incurable rabies, no one could save you as you weakened and drooled, a grotesque public spectacle. I would be sad but resigned to your tale’s inevitable conclusion, and you and all your puppy friends would be sad, too.

If you were sad and rabid, I would bring you with me to the wide-open rampart, and we would watch the mighty spaceships fly. I’d tell you to look up, and we’d see those ships break our world’s surly bonds to depart for alien shores. We’d wish their crews well as they explored great wonders yet unknown. Then you’d fill the lengthening dusk with your pitiful whimpers as the shiny rockets soared away … without you … never to return.

with a tip of our hats to Rachel Swirsky

There’s a set of patterns I keep seeing that are implicit in our news reportage—specifically, the reporting of legal cases. Patterns which seem to me to have a very simple underlying cause but which we take so much for granted that we don’t recognize them explicitly.

1. Justice is a religious cult.

2. Law is holy scripture.

3. Judges are priests.

4. Judicial capital punishment is human sacrifice.

via The cult of justice – Charlie’s Diary.

My alternate hypothesis from the comments:

1. Communities are shared narratives.
2. Governments are attempts to fix the narratives and who gets to create them.
3. Laws are created by authors and administered by editors.

Well, this is just depressing news…

In many areas of life, tall people seem to get all the benefits. On average, they earn more money. They are more successful at work. Taller people are just more, er, highly regarded than their shorter counterparts.

But research is showing that short people might win out in one big way: they might be less prone to cancer, and even have longer lives, than tall people.

via Is Being Tall Hazardous to Your Health? – The Crux | DiscoverMagazine.com.