Today’s guest post is brought to you by Black Hockey Jesus. No relation to that other guy named Jesus. I think. Maybe be nice to him in the comments, just in case.
I get a lot of email that says stuff like “You’re an arrogant jerk. Who do you think you are?”.
I also get a lot of email that says stuff like “You’re insane. How do you think up all the crazy shit you write about?” or “You’re stoned. How do you think up all the crazy shit you write about?”. Well guess what? I’m not insane or stoned. I just write like a woman.
I said I’m not insane. Or stoned.
You probably think I’ve written myself into a corner, that there’s no way out of this mess without saying something stupid and pissing off every woman on the internet. You’re probably right. And why the hell did I pick my guest post for Her Badness Catherine Connors to start making brash generalizations about the way women write? I don’t know.
I swear these ideas they just come to me.
Seriously. They do. And when I say I write like a woman, I’m signifying the archetypal sexual experience of the woman. What? I’m talking about the fundamental fact of the way the vagina receives the penis. She is the vessel. She is that soulful place that receives the man. Now I want to use this purely biological model of sex as a means to explore the way I write (Read: Let’s bypass the part where you attack me because I’m trying to perpetuate the oppression of women via passive representations of those wondrously curvy beings. It’s a blog. Not a scholarly journal. A little slack?).
A lot of books and blogs are by people who think too much. All cock & no pussy. They just tell us straight out what they think like a guy skipping foreplay. Then they actually tell us what we’re supposed to think like a drunken stepdad. Hey. Back off the prose, macho man. You can’t just rushity rush right into it. You gotta chill out. Slow down. Spread your legs. And let it come.
Your job isn’t to think up a bunch of cool things with your brilliant mind that you write down to make people laugh and/or think. Residues of the Patriarchy, tough guy. No. Your job is to stare at the moon, let yourself empty out and drop away—prepare the ground for what will come.
And then let it come.
Your best ideas are your craziest ideas that the Man in you thinks are dumb or stupid. He tries to throw them out and write things that are clear and reasonable. Fuck that guy. Write like a woman! Let’s do it now. I’m going sit here at my desk until something comes along that I don’t consciously think of…
Look. It’s a little girl in a green dress with a bunch of droopy yellow flowers.
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: What do you want little girl?
LITTLE GIRL IN A GREEN DRESS WITH A BUNCH OF DROOPY YELLOW FLOWERS: I want my Mommy.
BHJ: Well where is your Mommy little girl?
LGIAGDWABODF: She is saying a prayer to the dark through a mist of dust and regret.
BHJ: Well you’re a trippy little girl aren’t you? You remind me of Arthur Rimbaud. Run along now.
You see? I had nothing to do with creating that little girl. I didn’t invent her or make her up or think of her. I was merely the passive receiver wherein she arose and said some trippy shit. She was kinda spooky too. I didn’t choose her dress color or the flowers. They just appeared to me. You see how easy it is? You were just trying too hard. It has nothing to do with you. You are surrounded, right now, by more things than you could ever dream of writing. Let them in. Write like a woman. And if you’re a guy, other guys will probably call you a pussy. Because you are! You are a pussy. But this is the 21st Century. It’s OK to be a pussy.