I haven't submitted a new post in a while. There's a reason for this. I've been rewriting the bible in more modern terms. Please allow me to share the new Genesis:
Lo, and in the beginning there was naught but a blank sheet of paper and a Writer, a Writer who sat before this loose sheet of empty whiteness with pen in outstretched hand and many wonders in His mind. And He looked before His canvas, bereft of all letter or word or sentence and He knew that He must put pen to pad and write as none had ever written before, lest the paper be empty and the words spell out nothing and the story remain unfulfilled. And He sat and He thought, and He thought and He sat, and for a very long time He stared at the blank white sheet before Him and the Writer wrote nothing down, not even the word nothing, but a void of intention to write but not a word for said void. And as He sat and planned and plotted and meditated upon the nature of the written word and how He could put all of these new ideas to paper could He only find the right way to string them together, the Writer grew petulant with his page of pearly parchment.
The Writer said, "Let there be an end to this infernal task." And upon growing tired of staring at a perpetually barren piece of paper, the Writer stood up and wandered to His television and sat upon His couch, remote control in hand, and meditated upon the nature of cable and how there never seems to be anything of interest to watch. And as He sat there and pondered watching Netflix instead despite knowing that there was nothing any better on see on that, the king of all streaming services, He knew that it was probably best if He should turn off the television set and sit back down before His empty papyrus, pen in hand, or typewriter, or keyboard (perhaps He'd join the rest of the 21st century and finally utilize a word processor) and finally get to work on that story He was meaning to tell. Or not. There were certainly other distractions at hand that could pass by an afternoon, He thought.
The Writer said, "Let there be feast so as to get my creative juices flowing." And so, rising up like a phoenix from his comfortable couch, the Writer walked not towards his pen and pad, but rather towards the kitchen to make within its hallowed chamber a sandwich through which He sought the comforts of a full stomach and through said stomach filled with food, the energy necessary to at long last complete, nay begin that tale of which He hath promised to write so fully but hath yet to truly tell. And upon His sandwich, the Writer drew to Him many a deli meat, both of the ham and the salami, for this was an Italian combo, and it would require both the Genoa and the pepperoni. And of the vegetables, there were a plenty, both the lettuce romaine and the onions red, banana peppers for a bit of spice, and olives. He liked olives, and black olives, neatly sliced were certainly called for here upon this most revered of sandwiches. And all this, the Writer laid out before Him neatly upon a hero roll, with several slices of Swiss cheese and a generous dollop of deli mustard. And the Writer looked upon the sandwich and saw that it was good.
The Writer said, "Let the sandwich be shown to the world before me and all shall take pleasure in my accomplishment." And before taking a bite, He would inform all of His culinary creation. Bringing forth from the depths of his pocket the iPhone of wonders, He snapped a photo of the sandwich for all to behold upon the Instagram. And once the photo was posted to the internet, He looked upon the many likes and mouthwatering comments and the Writer saw that it was good. And there was much rejoicing and the Writer ate His sandwich. And it was delicious.
The Writer said, "Let there be books, comics, internet articles, anything really with words in it that I can read and perhaps gather some inspiration." And before Him was laid out that book He kept trying to read, the latest issue of "The Amazing Spider-Man", and a few articles about the latest bullshit spewing from Donald Trump's mouth. Beyond those articles, He sat and He read the comments coming from those loonies who actually want to vote for Trump and He laughed. And none of it was really very inspiring or intellectual or world changing, and yet the Writer read it all. And He continued to read this, or watch a clip of that, and it all amounted to a wasted afternoon. And the Writer was growing tired, and He saw this and thought it was good?
The Writer said, "Let there be video games and Facebook and binge watching that new show everyone keeps talking about and porn. And before long, a whole lot of time had passed and not much was accomplished, and that paper upon his desk laid dormant, gathering dust, still devoid of any sort of meaning or purpose. And still the barren paper continued to haunt the Writer who knew that He had not accomplished His intended task to create, to build, to nurture and structure a world of His own. And the Writer looked upon his failed creation and he saw that it was bad. And the Writer sighed, for every creation story must have a villain, He mused, and mine are procrastination and writer's block.
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