W. P. Johnson

Three dollars a day…

In Uncategorized on August 18, 2010 at 6:23 pm

Today, it’s official. I’m a coffee house jerk off.

Yes. I buy a cup of coffee for two dollars, tip an extra dollar, and plant my ass in a chair for six to seven hours while plugging my stupid laptop into a wall. For years I used to think it was annoying when people did this, glancing over their shoulders to see nothing more than a facebook page refreshing yet again. You really need to take up a whole table just to fuck around online?

I used to write at night. But then, after hitting a wall, I would take a break and drink a beer or smoke a cigarette just to walk away from the story, give my mind a minute or two to work shit out on its own (the subconscious does some wonderful work). Problem is, within the hour I’d be six or seven beers deep with a coffee cup full of cigarette butts and somehow TV seemed like more fun than sitting in front of a laptop, not getting anything done.

I have, on more than one occasion, accidentally grabbed for the mug of cigarette butts in the middle of the night when I was thirsty. Especially if I’m drunk.

Truthfully, as much of a pompous jerk off I must look like, I get more writing done in public. I can’t smoke here (I’ve since quit anyway), I can’t drink, I can’t do my laundry or clean the bathroom here. I’m stuck, and if I don’t write, I don’t do anything at all but stare at this stupid screen while taking up a table.

So next time you see some guy with his laptop at a cafe and later that afternoon you walk by the same cafe and see the same guy sitting there, chances are he’s just trying to avoid his alcoholism and get some actual work done. A cold refreshing beer is more tempting that you might imagine when alone and face to face with a story that’s going NOWHERE.

Speaking of stories, I’ve gotten pretty good responses regarding the gallery exhibit and the stuff I wrote. To quote one of my managers, “You’re smarter than I thought you were.” Gee, thanks, I guess.

That said, I’ll be expanding one of the pieces, the one entitled “One Page Story” into something slightly longer, probably around ten pages. It is about a journalist researching a story on a exhibitionist who feels no pain. In it, he finds out that this performer wasn’t born this way, but underwent a unusual process in order to render himself numb. It’ll be creepy, unusual, and yet again another attempt of mine to rip off old Clive Barker.

Oh yeah, the book is coming along too…

-Bill

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  1. good work bill

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