Great. Just when you thought it was safe, here comes another half-baked, the half-assed post. For those of you keeping score, this one is number eight in our continuing series. Seriously, only eight? That’s all? Shouldn’t that number be higher, like around 50? Or 80? Hang on, let me double-check, talk amongst yourselves for a second …
Nope, it’s eight.
Damn, that’s low. I expected to find uncounted dozens of old half-baked posts. Instead I found dust bunnies and cobwebs and cookie crumbs and, ew, a mountain of wadded up tissues. Those last sopped up the tears I shed reading my first drafts. Quite frankly, they’re terrible. Stinkeroos, all. The fact that a first draft ever makes it past that stage, the steaming pile stage, is nothing short of miraculous. It’s a testament to the resilience and perseverance of writers.
But guess what: I’m neither of those.
I’m a quitter. I don’t like hard work and I loathe falling short. Where’s the fun in that? A first draft is, almost by definition, a failed attempt. It’s a flop. Only an optimist would call it a good start and they’re delusional. There’s nothing good about first drafts. Even Ernest Hemingway, a writer of some note, said, “The first draft of anything is shit.” Well, if he thought his were crappy, imagine how I feel.
Nothing like a writer, that’s for sure. Demoralized is a better description; pissed off is good, too. But, apparently, humiliation is the motivation I need to start hammering and pounding and tweaking the draft into a lucid, coherent piece. Perverse, isn’t it? Sure, but what choice do I have? I can’t just let it molder. The smell would be so horrible, so overpowering I’d have to move and that involves heavy lifting. I don’t do heavy lifting. Of any kind.
Math, for example, is the intellectual equivalent of heavy lifting. I don’t do math and I wouldn’t know Fermat’s last theorem from Custer’s last stand. It’s a deeply scary and mysterious subject, but I love the t-shirts. Like the one below, which I found while trolling the Internet last week. Among other things:
Here’s looking at Euclid t-shirt $21.95 (S – 2XL) — this is more than a trendy black t-shirt, it’s a really smart look. Brainiac smart. I don’t understand the equation, but I know where you can find one: philosophersguild.com Buy the shirt with a pair of Freudian Slippers ($24.95 in S,M,L) and make yourself comfortable.
The Simpsons and Their Mathematical Secrets — you know those theorems and formulas you ignore on the blackboard in The Simpsons? Surprise! The math is real and incredibly sophisticated. Turns out many of the writers on the show are Harvard-educated mathletes. Who knew math nerds were funny? I didn’t. The book is available at amazon.com, bn.com, and everywhere books are sold.
Eaves Drops ($3.00) — the entire world is talking about the cool, refreshing, lemony taste of Eaves Drops. And we heard every word. Also available at: philosophersguild.com
Well, boys and girls, that brings us to the end of another exciting installment of half-baked. I hope you had fun. Tune in again next time when the topic will be particle physics : )
Happy trails and adios.
Copyright © 2014 Publikworks
14 responses to “: half-baked viii :”
Those Eaves Drops are a riot! Do you mind if I share about ’em on my blog?
Love the paper boy illustration too.
Aren’t they great? I’m a sucker for stuff like that. So, please, share away — we need to support the unconventional entrepreneurs who dream up such things : )
It’s the fourth or fifth draft that sends me to the wine cabinet. I’d read that F. Scott Fitzgerald would stop drinking ONLY when he was writing. That makes no sense to me. Except probably in his case, there was enough residual alcohol swimming around in his bloodstream to carry him through the entire novel.
He’s probably still got a buzz going and it’s been, what?, 75 years or something. The dude could Drink, with a capital D. Do you think there are bars in the afterlife?
I’m counting on it.
Yay. Let’s sit at Dorothy Parker’s table, she was a lush and she was hilarious. >
The T-shirt is great. I love it.
I’ve been trying to wade through some of my half baked stinkeroos, too. It must be that time of year. Spring cleaning perhaps.
That has to be it, silk purse. Spring cleaning. Plus I hate being reminded how bad they are. I want to get rid of the evidence, you know?
Oh, I know! Sometimes I look at something I started and wonder what I was smoking.
I am familiar with that feeling. Ugh.
I feel ashamed calling myself an engineer when I can’t, for the life of me, remember what that Euclid equation is about.
I thought I was lucky to remember who Euclid was. At all.
I follow the other immortal words of Ernest Hemingway: write drunk; edit sober.
As I haven’t posted a post in quite while, I obviously need to work on my drinking.
You had me with the write drunk part, but edit sober? Really? Let’s go for drinks and write a book, BD.