Ideas don’t always come easily. Writing is hard. Not writing must be easier. Creativity takes too much effort. If I give up on writing, I can stop worrying about spelling things right and hoping all my commas are in the right places. There are so many other people out there who are better than me, I know I won’t be missed. I could drop the whole writing thing and maybe get some rest. I won’t wake up in the middle of the night. I won’t feel compelled to swim down through the brown-black darkness to the kitchen lit only by the blue clock on the microwave, and let go of the half-rendered plot lines that hold sleep ransom.
I can stop paying attention. I’ll have no reason to squirrel away all those little details that can be used later to make writing come alive. What do I care if the guy next to me on the subway platform has a complexion like a cantaloupe? Why bother noting how the throat squeezes with emotion when tears flood the eyes. So, yeah, screw the idea gathering and daily writing. Forget about looking for inspiration.
As long as I’m at it, the hell with reading. I’m a slow reader anyway. Books take so long for me to get through. There is so much effort, so much time invested in reading. The TV is all I need. Turn on a show and turn off my brain. I won’t have to use my imagination. I won’t even bother muting the commercials.
Since I won’t be using my computer for anything productive, I can devote my screen time to playing video games, searching for nude pictures of Snookie and Miss America, or “liking” things on Facebook.
I can buy stuff off of the dollar menu. It’s much easier than shopping and cooking since I’ll probably be on my own. Relationships are a lot of work. Why would my wife want to hang out with someone who’s given up? I can’t say I’d blame her, that would take too much effort.
Then there’s my job. Way too much to worry about—office politics, job requests and filing reports. After all, we do call it work. I’ll probably soon find myself living out of an empty refrigerator box or curled in the recessed doorway of a closed liquor store. If I’m lucky I’ll get picked up for vagrancy and locked up where they will at least bathe, clothe, house, and feed me. Oh, what a downward spiral. Wait, now there’s an idea. That might make a pretty good story. Never mind…