Long time no ink, Preston. Hmph. 27 years to date in fact. To the best of my memory, the last time I picked up a writing utensil for anything was 18 years ago, and that had been to cross out something.
Now, over a quarter of a century later, I sit here at this desk wondering where the words and the sense of wonder have gone. That same power that made you the late 1970s’ and early 1980s’ grittiest, edgiest children’s book writer? It ends up shooting you in the foot, like a sentient bear trap that has been taught how to operate a gun.
In fact I think it’s been longer than 27 years since my writer’s instinct last suggested I write something that didn’t reopen old wounds with the local PTA. It seemed 1983 saw me unable to write another sentence without another neighborhood dad approaching my house with lit torch, telling me to take my legal pads, my pens, my writing helmet, and throw it all into a toilet and flush it down the drain for a while.
Fortunately, implied was the notion that in a couple of years I could go plodding through the sewers looking for my lost items.
But let me tell you something. Let enough rust accumulate in your writing arm and it starts operating like a mongoloid boy’s hind leg, which means that it’s baby step after baby step getting the old fuck rocket back into throwing condition if you know what I mean.
Quick note: The last time I checked, which was 27 years ago in 1983, any children’s book writer worth his sack of tits called his writing arm Fuck Rocket or in some cases el Fucko Rocketa. I think this practice is still used.
So here it goes, world. This piece begins the second chapter of my career; the slow, arduous reacquainting process of mind and word, hand and ink, writer dick and children’s book agent ass, writer dick and children’s book publisher ass, writer dick and children’s bookstore ass.
The lead up to this momentous day began several weeks ago, when I began the process of coaching the old horse dicks (fingers) to pick up a pen, gradually moving on to writing letters. Here are some of the early letters I wrote: w, m, M, S, i.
A couple of days ago I called myself up to the minor leagues for some single A ball: sentences. Taking words and arranging them so that the syntax was right and the letters were nice. You know. In some cases, some words in the same sentences ended up starting with the same letters. And I don’t quite remember if that is frowned upon or not.
Regardless, here are some sentences I wrote when I was just getting started again:
-The savannah grew still with the dying rectal spasms of the lion cubs.
-The previously retired Lakers guard hobbled down the basketball field, little bits of the gay cancer in each step.
-Whispering Willows farm was a coyote’s howl from the gentle brook where the Overland Trail Elementary School dog-rapes were to occur. (Okay, this is actually a revised passage from something I had published previously)
In several days I begin my next project. I think the best way to describe it is that it’s just a book about a school of aardvarks in this dimension where a gun has just been created that is capable of shooting and raping at the same time.