Inaugural Address

Why aren't I funny anymore?

I used to be funny. I used to be able to rattle off some serious one-liners at a moments notice. These days? Not so much. I don't know when or how I lost my edge. I have been trying to will it back for some time, to no avail. It's almost as if the harder I try, the less funny I become. The same can be said of any fledgling creative and writing ability I once possessed. Hell, I wrote a novel that I actually submitted for publication a few years ago. True, it was a cliched-filled cavity-inducing romance the likes of which would have made Danielle Steele proud. Okay, maybe not Steele herself, but certainly her pool boy. I bet even Fabio would have liked it.

Lately, it seems, I can barely utter a sentence without the word Like making its sneaky little way into every, oh, 3rd or 4th word. Since when did I become an air-head? Since when have I surfed? I am better than this "Like" horseshit. I suppose I can rationalize it as compensating for a definite tendency toward geekishness and bookwormary. I can make excuses all day long for the disturbing lack of original thought and vocabulary. Sure, everyone uses "Like" from time-to-time. But, like, when did I start sounding like I'm from California? Dude, like, seriously. This has become especially apparent at work. When I'm trying to, like, describe a problem to one of my fellow Engineers, I use the word "Like" incessantly. I'm not stupid, but I often feel as if I must come across that way to these people.

That's not the worst of it. The worst of it is that I can't seem to write anymore. All of my energy is wasted trying to think about ideas for a story. The pros tell you to write everyday. What if all you see when you look at the paper is a sea of nothingness? What are you supposed to write about? How are you supposed to write something when you can't think of anything? Just like the humor situation, the more I try, the more of a brick wall I face.

Oh well, the world has moved on, says Stephen King. I'm afraid I may have moved on from these traits as well. I'm afraid I no longer have the creative energy and vitality I once had. I'm afraid that most of the things I write about it are vapid.

Do I envy the confident, pretentious, arrogant writers that sit around at Harbucks all day making sure all and sundry are aware that they are writing a great work of art? Do I envy the beat poets and the stream-of-consciousness Kerouac wannabes in the world? Do I pick up novels by any of the great American writers of the last century and feel a twinge of jealous? Nope. Not. At. All. Well, maybe a little. Maybe, for one small moment, I would like someone to grab a book I wrote and be swept away. So, now matter how futile the effort (or the resistance), I will keep trying.

I tried really hard to turn that into a borg joke. Get it? No. See? I will end on that colossal bad pun fail.