Writing about writing

I wonder how all those authors did it. How those poets, bards, playwrights, novelists, satirists managed to use their pens (sticks,quills, chisels, reed pens or any old darn thing they had in their time), churn out ideas and construct them into wonderful verses, immortal phrases, words that have captured our imagination and will do so in the very distant future? Personally I find it rather difficult. It's like having a painful, throbbing boil smack bang in the middle of your arse cheek- you can't sit, you can't run and you definitely need to have second thoughts of using the Western loo.

The first major hurdle I face is the topic. I usually have absolutely no idea of what I should write about- Little pixies or water bears; tiny strawberry leprechauns or Santa Claus' inflamed left bollock. Usually I need to throw dice and choose a topic. When someone says- dude, that's like horse poo man, all I do is I quote old Julius Caesar, "Alea iacta est" (The die has been cast). After choosing my topic and rubbing my hands with obvious glee, I start to write (type nowadays- we'll get to that later) and the idea that I have is wonderful- like tiny indigo dinosaurs hopping about on a field of red chrysanthemums with a stoned sun, smoking a joint of grass, puking rainbows and shining out soap bubble patterns that pop into his mind- I get stuck while trying to put all this cascade of information into a few words. Hmmmm... What can I do?

Then I decide- that's way too much information, man. **SYSTEM OVERRIDE** flashes about in my tired head. Too much- was way too bad for my poor head. Let's take a more simplistic approach. New topic. Fat Guy eats ice cream? No most fat guys do that. Then comes the mother of all ideas. Yup- plagiarise! Lemme pinch a post that I have already written. Flower it up a bit. Then comes a lightning bolt+voice from above- "Thou shalt not plagiarise. Do it with some other fellow's post who is a better writer than thou". Aha- thanks a lot, voice and lightning- I shall set out immediately on this noblest of tasks. Ultimately I find that a whole load of them are better than me and I have way too much information to process.

After a few days, I ultimately settle on a topic, and I start to type. If anybody has seen me type, they know that I type as well as a drunk hippopotamus in a tutu would dance the Swan Lake Ballet. Actually the hippo may do a better job at the ballet. So my inquisition with the keyboard begins and with more effort than Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tensing had to muster to climb Mount Everest, I type out my post (or a story or any old shit). So after altering the positions of the tendons and the bones in my fingers and hands permanently, I finally bring out a post, fresh or stale from my mind.

This is of course a hobby-really is, despite the blooming boil analogy- but doing it over and over- writing over 200 pages, like most authors- even if it crap, like some books really are- demands respect.