It rocked me like a hurricane

I guess I should be eating the harsh words I've said about people who give up blogging. One of the ticks on my blogroll came back on the fifteenth and oh, how I missed her. Oh, how she missed us. That's what blogging is, you know, some kind of communal clusterfuck of a love-hate relationship. When the readers are cruel, so are the writers. And so forth.

But I should be eating my words because I have come to realize in this past week how hard it can be to keep writing. . I'm one of those people, the people who likes to just write and write and write some more. I let myself get swamped, though, and I have to admit that I don't know if that'll stay the case for the next period of time.

Usually, at my school, the workload is very light, which remains true. There just isn't much homework to go around, and so usually, I have the hutspa, the moxie, if you will, to keep up this blog. And I'm sure you're all so glad of that, that I'm still here to tell you when I poop and what my breath smells like. My communal clusterfuck is all up in that shit. (a phrase on which you can quote me.) I have all the time in the world, usually, to tell stories about a five-foot-eleven hippie, and write playful songs about camping, and mess with font after font after font.

I hate to play the blame game, but it's totally my screenwriting teacher's fault. This screenplay I've been writing, based on The Dharma Bums, is taking a lot of that old writing jazz out of me. Instead, I've been pumping out short poems like:

"i wrote a letter to him but he didn't write back
weeks past oh well"

This is also my English teacher's fault, because we've hit the ground running by reading poetry, as the curriculum dictates. (as a side note, certain people in my class should stop complaining about the duration of the poetry study. It has nothing to do with my teacher or his teaching. But those people should just stop complaining anyway. Good Christ.) First it was Emily Dickinson and then Walt Whitman, two writers who I've never been particularly fond of, but accidentally weaseled their way into the writing of my own personal poetry. Damn you, Literature!

In between having to method act my way into knowing the Dharma Bum characters, writing poetry so oddly modeled after the dead poets, and waking up disoriented on the bus home, it would seem that my regular blog posting has suffered. I'm sorry, blog. I know I've done you wrong and I promise to make it up to you somehow.