WRITER'S BLOCK: THE RIDE

(IE: I have no ideas or too many.)
Once upon a time, a long time ago
Who cares!? We're just looking for a good first line here, right? Just start the thing. Edit
later. Because you can with this project.
Just start throwing out first lines.
I puked the first time I killed one of them.
I can't think of anything I would have wanted less than a bullet ripping senselessly through
my head, but that's exactly what I got.
Knowing I'll be dead in an hour makes this much easier.
I almost like that one.
Janet, if you're reading this you suck!
No, that one sucks.
You still think your parents are really your parents, don't you?
Not too bad.
The television sat in the corner imploring no one in particular to consume more, spend
more, think less.
That one's cool. Definitely. Dystopic, post-modern, cynical. Obviously the beginning of
something brilliant. Not sure, yet, of what. Brilliant for sure, though. Oh yeah.
As the process continues, it gets harder to tell what's real and what's side-effect.
Better.
I highly recommend suicide for all the participants of the Worming.
As suicides notes go, I suppose you're not normally supposed to leave a whole book.
Jesus Fucking Christ, just how long does it take to drink yourself to death? I've been hard
at work on it for two months now! Fuck! I didn't even want to leave a note, but I'm so
fucking pissed off and terminally hammered that I guess I fucking have to.
(Put it this way: any thought can lead to insanity if taken too far and I think way too much.)
(?)
The simplicity of the solution is probably why it eluded me for so long.
Eh. . .
Drugs are cool and all religion is bunk.
Fun.
The clouds were smeared across the sky like someone bumped into them while they were
trying to dry.
Nice visual image, not much substance for an opening line. Maybe just a paragraph? Some
guy went off on a rant about how you should never describe how the clouds look in a novel.
It really got in this guy's craw or something. I won't say who it was, but it's someone you
know. A famous guy I mean. Not like I know your friends or something. Hell, I barely
know mine. Anyway, here's clouds at ya, buddy. Describe what you want! Even if it
might be crap.
This morning, my wife told me I cried out, "And so it begins," in my sleep last night.
Like so many others, the world passed away in the middle of the night.
The death certificate sat on the television, unsigned and undated.
Hmm. . .
While lying is frowned upon by most cultures and religions, there still isn't a law against it.
True.
I hate to sound melodramatic, but reading this will probably put you at risk.
(Too 1920s? Too Lovecraft?)
My stepfather finally died yesterday, taking his sweet fucking time.
(Sets up a definite tone)
"Now that I'm dead, it's really hard to get these fingers to work. I'm not complaining, just
noticing, really. Thanks for bringing me back."
Damn, I love papercuts.
Every plant in my yard exploded this morning.
You can get blood from a stone.
Once upon a time can kiss my ass.
Luckily, it wasn't the first time I'd been impaled. The thorns are always annoying, but you
can't let them get you too mad. If they knew how painful thorns really were, they wouldn't
use them. Still, I know, it is VERY VERY DIFFICULT to remain calm all the time.
I've got a six hour videotape full of commercials. With no repeats.
Recommended dosages are for wimps; take it all!
Didn't I ask you not to read this manuscript?
Again, no! TRY HARDER YOU LAZY BASTARD!!!
I got my first phone just to see my name in a book.
Too The Jerk, damnit.
.kcul hcum gnivah ton m'I tub ,sdrawkcab etirw ot ton gniyrt peek I
!ERONGI
Someday, son, none of this will be yours.
Crazy rich people wanting to be poor?
I'm always hungry; someday I'll have to have a few of my stomachs removed.
Bourbon is a great chaser for whiskey.
Who need grammar?
(a Tshirt?)
The vampire sat in his hotel room thinking about how much he hated vampire stories.
Medium-rare.
Demonic possession is highly underrated.
Just where the hell does all this snot come from?
The first television show pilot I sold was the one where I tried to write the lamest piece of
shit ever written.
Mommy keeps telling me that eight-year-olds shouldn't write stories about crack-whore
nuns that freebase the semen of their junkie priests. She said it was Logistics' and not
Semantics' that formulated her opinion. Whatever that's supposed to mean.
I keep wondering who's buried in my grave.
Do they really think war is more civilized if they make up rules?
I always feel guilty when my screen-saver activates.
The only "real" complaint he had was the radiation sickness.
Sometimes you can't help but say "kumquat."
Understand is a nonsensical word.
I still get pissed off every time someone kills me.
The computer is eating my words again.
Even after I gouged my eyes out, I could still see it.
That sounds like it would be a good (shabby) last line for a Lovecraftian epic poem.
Damn Lovecraft again.
The shock of the doctor telling me I was pregnant would be lessened if I wasn't a man.
Lame times 50fifty!
The world's gone to hell since "Generic" became a name brand.
The guy that said "we have nothing to fear, but fear itself" never met the Bloodsmiths.
You'll be amazed at what you can see when you learn how to keep your eyes open during a
sneeze.
My English-to-Spanish dictionary doesn't seem to have a translation for FNORD;
obviously, a misprint.
Too obscure?
As he listened to the instruction tapes, his thumbs grew back.

The lobotomy didn't have have quite the effect I'd hoped it wood.
That one, as near as I can tell, is a complete short story.
Sure, Fellini was a good director, but he didn't know dick about splatter films.
As the bombs drop, during what will surely be the last World Wa
I guess that one's a whole story, too. Here's another quickie:
This is how it all ends, I gu
(Or as a whole story. Title and body)
The End
th
Okay, I met the girl, just like I was supposed to, but she's such a cunt, I can't really see us
getting together.
Even just for shock value, the word "nigger" should never be used.
The thing about eating bicycles, bit by bit, is that your body grows a dependence for all that
metal and rubber.
I made it to my desk without pants or underwear, only this time it was no nightmare.
I don't know what all the fuss was about in the old movies; zombies are wussy-ass weaktit
white bread Twinkie sonsabitches.
Nobody knew what it meant the day all the grass and flowers turned yellow.
Death isn't the end or beginning, it's still just another fucking middle-man.
To wince during pleasure is an under-rated achievement.
Just like life, this story presents no resolution or meaning.
Some people hate jews or blacks or the aliens, I just hate everyone.
His room was on the fourteenth floor, which would be the thirteenth if it wasn't for all the
damn triskaidekaphobes.
Wayward Pay close This struggle rebellion Secret am I going to fast for you to write
this all down? The time essence to avoid Struggle never never IMPORTANT!!!
failsafe...
...lame...
It was a perfectly ordinary day.
[Manuscript horribly corroded, found in the Flight 19 wreckage]
Sammy always dress drably, avoidance signal dirty.
Rigby Manor stood by the Fire-towers, overlooking the Proper.
And now for another installment in the adventures of Rogue Nosehair!

It isn't working. Sure, some of these lines grab me, but just not enough. Some of them
suck, but some are kick-ass. Maybe I'll even use a couple someday. Just not today.
Maybe some endings. Something to shoot towards.
And they all "lived" happily ever after.
Maybe I'll leave the light on tonight, again.
Go for that tear-jerker thing.
Or:
It was still cold.
Kind of a maudlin, know-it-all bittersweet thing.
Or something hopeful, like:
Maybe February will be better.
Wait-
SICK DAYS AND PAID VACATION
The New Year started with a hangover. No surprises there. A general lacking, sickish day
without much accomplishment. Just the idea of a drink or cigarette makes him noxious;
those two resolutions just might make it through the day. Aspirin, juice, soup, at four hour
intervals. Soaps, talk-show garbage, rap videos and other crap he hates. A small taste of
dystopia as a vaccination of whatever lies ahead. One of those days that never seem to end.
By the third day, the hangover was gone. Pretty much. Back to work soon, no
doubt. He has six Sick Days at work, symbolizing his years with the company. And two
weeks (ten days) paid vacation. If it comes down to it. This is Sick Day number one.
Damn, almost had something there. Would have tied in with the hopeful ending and
everything. Maybe February will be better. . .
Damn.
A vendetta. My neighbors conspiring. Small annoyances, missing objects, a cat's
footprints on my car, people walking across my roof. Omens. They think they Know, but
they don't. I hold the secret. The Secret. Capital S. It's so precious that even I don't
know it. I'm sure I know it, of course, but I don't really, you know? A Secret. And they
want it. You know what a secret is. They're pretending to watch a TV show in the house
on my right. The left is "not home," you know. They pretend not to spy on me. Pretend
I'm annoying, and feign avoidance. Danger signals are everywhere. The karma in this
neighborhood is questionable, at best. Whispery muffled death threats, bits of plans, code
words. I labeled everything in the trailer. Little bits of paper, with name neatly printed,
scotch-taped everywhere. "WALL 3," "PENNY," "GAS BILL," "LEFT SHOE."
Mantras of the Inanimate. My nose is not bleeding. Now they're pretending to watch
commercials. During their show. Of all the things to pretend. I'll pretend you're not
spying on me, complete the illusion, we're just normal folks. There are lots of stray cats
here in the park. NO PETS ALLOWED. You know. I have a computer. I'm typing on it
right now (in the past). You're reading in the future and I'm typing now, in the past. I live
there. I even smoke cigarettes, but I'm trying to quit. You know. I remember lots of
things but I can't tell them all to you right now because I forgot some of them at the
moment and I remember when I have to. I can tell you my name. And now the neighbors
are watching their show again. I don't even pretend to notice. And the left people still
aren't home. "Watching TV." "Not home." "BUSINESS AS USUAL!" Sometimes it
sounds like a knock on the door. My clothes do not control me, I wear them. Sometimes
the neighbors "watch" TV for about 5 whole hours. I sometimes fear they have no life.
They say I should buy a new car and lots of delicious food. The commercials do, not the
neighbors. I wonder how long the neighbors are going to "watch TV" tonight.
I will try to pick up on that one later. I kinda like it. Ran out of steam for the moment; I'm
just not in a paranoid schizophrenic mood right now. Still, it was worth a try.
An ending:
The clouds all float away into the ocean. Still, nobody controls the wind.
Or:
She hitched up her skirt to reveal a rubber chicken in her garter. She started smiling and
said, "One last time?" By then, he was smiling too.
(Maybe the MOST ROMANTIC THING EVER WRITTEN, I'm not sure)
He'd have to let the help go tomorrow. Or maybe the day after.
Even with a different memory and body, it was still Cheryl. It would always be Cheryl.
After a couple thousand years, they stopped waiting.
The ironic thing was, he knew it would still be four or five hours before the acid wore off.
Romeo jumped up and yelled "April Fools!" Verily, he was too late and everyone had
already succumbed to their own hand. For it wasn't even April.
She said something else, too. But I forgot it.
And that's that.