But one thing I am missing by reading my own stuff, is the sense of surprise, the unexpected turn of phrase or a clever plot twist that the non-me enjoys. This has been the bane of many an author, and undoubtedly why so many former writers have killed themselves, that and the substance abuse problems and the self esteem issues. But I, for one, wasn't going to take this conundrum lying down. I came up with a brilliant plan to counter this historically unsolvable riddle.
Like any truly great plan, my plan included generous... large... insanely stupid amounts of alcohol. What I decided to do was drink myself into a drunken stupor and then write the next Great American Novel, (possibly an Average Armenian Novelette, at the very least a Substandard Peruvian Short Story), while under the influence. And then when I was done I would have a brand spanking new novel, that I was reading as a neophyte.
So night after night, for the love of my craft, I drank myself into a black out state. And I wrote. Like a feverish drunken writer guy... that was really drunk. And morning after morning I woke up feeling like death itself, but knowing that it would be worth it when I was able to read some heretofore undiscovered gem of writing mastery. Sometimes I would leave myself cryptic notes, about some subject that I needed to research, or the status of the project. "Find out about Egyptian mythology", "You are a cleaver... wity... inteljent man", "Te-kill-ya; ahahahhahaahahha... urp".
Finally the much anticipated day arrived. I awoke to find a note stapled to my forehead stating simply, eloquently, "f*cking done." I picked up the stack of papers in eager anticipation, put them back down and ran to the bathroom to puke out my guts. After taking a shower, and half a bottle of aspirin, and a little twelve hour nap, I tried again. I gathered my manuscript and sat in a comfy chair and began to read.
HOLY CRAP! It was exactly what I had set out to create. I had no idea what was coming up next. Nobody could. it was ... just... it just makes me cry a little bit. It was awe inspiringly, unimaginably, completely, utterly, in every way, unreadable. Apparently drunk flip is an even worse punctuater than sober flip. In addition, drunk flip is obsessed with clowns, poop, and aliens, (oh and all caps, evidently drunk flip yells a lot.) I left myself with a 400 page tome of, what in retrospect seems completely obvious, drunken rambling.
I included a small excerpt, lest you think I am just being to hard on myself.
...AND THEN THE UGLY GREN ALIEN LEEDER SIAD "HAHAHAHA: YOU POOPED YOURSELF IN FEAR.
AND THEM THE STOOPID CLOWN SAID. "OR DID I? CHECKMATE. YOU CAME IN PIECE, AND NOW YOUR LEAFING IN PEACES! THAT WAS A NEURONIC BOMB SUPPOSITORY THAT THE U.N., I MEAN THE CIA, I MEAN THE MEN IN BLACK PREEMPTIVELY GAVE ME TO GET YOU. CHECKMATE!"
"YOU ALREADY SAID THAT", SAID THE UGLY GREEN ALIEN
"SAID WHAT?" SAID THE CLOWN
"SAID THE CZECH MATING THING" SAID THE ALIEN
"OH YEAH" SAID THE CLEVER CLOWN
"YEAH" SAID THE GREEN UGLY ALIENS
"WELL; THATS BECAUSE IT'S A DOUBLE DANGER TO YOU" SAID THE CLOWN
"HOW IS THAT?" SAID THE GREEN ALIEN, WHO WAS UGLY
"IT IS A A NEURONIC BOMB, THE MOSTEST DEADLY-IEST BOMB EVER KNOWN TOO MAN, AND IT HAS CLOWN POOP ON IT. THAT IS THE PANCEA FOR GREEN UGLIES WHO ARE ALSO ALIENS" SAID THE CLOWN.
"ISN'T PANGEA THE SUPERCONTINENT FROM YOU'RE PLANETS YESTER-YORE?" QUERIED ALLEN THE UGLY
"NO DUMBY." COUNTERED CLOWNY THE CLOWN. "I MEANT A CURE ALL FOR YOU'RE EVIL ALIENESS. ALIEN EVILNESS. SOMETHING, YOUR THE DISEASE, NEURONIC POOP BOMBS IS THE ANSWER"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" SAYS ALIEN. THE GREEN UGLY ONE.
AND THEN THE ENTIRE UNIVERSE BLUE UP.
I would say that this experiment was an abject failure, if I didn't have the benefit of some lovely fist size holes in my drywall walls and a charming case of psoriasis. Maybe I should try Opium next time.