How to Overcome Writer's Block by Not Writing.

Lo and begorrah. I haven't posted to this consarn log in nary a fortnight!

Sorry, sometimes I enjoy talking like Pa Ingalls—the real one, not the dashing yet sappy actor who left us far too soon.

It's been ten days. Jeez.

Don’t think it hasn't been bothering me, though. For the past week-and-a-half, I've stood here at the literary urinal with the worst case of stage fright ever, and not even visualizations of babbling brooks and waterfalls have primed the prose from my creative renal system.

Apparently, my muse needs Meuslix.

When I've not been able to summon a topic in the past, I've turned to the pages of the newspaper for inspiration, where I can typically extract a nugget or two of lampoonable material from the day's headlines. But with the Boston tragedy still so raw, the atmosphere is not unlike the aftermath of September 11, where the premature use of humor seems almost ignorant  and patronizing to the human suffering.

In the days leading up to Monday's horrific events, North Korea's newly anointed divine psychopath, Kim Jun Eun, had been dominating the media's face time. I'd decided to learn more about the struggles of the North Korean people and read a book entitled, Escape From Camp 14. It's the story of a man who, after having spent his first twenty-three years in a North Korean labor camp, escaped to China, then on to South Korea and the United States. 

While I endorse this account co-authored by Washington Post journalist Blaine Harden, I wouldn't recommend reading it if you aren't prepared to encounter gruesome stories of a nation's institutionalized brutality on its own people over the past sixty years. Truly chilling.

So, yeah, like many of the world's with even a light dusting of compassion, I've been in a downright funk. And when you pen a blog that attempts to keep things buoyant, you tend to feel as if there are some pretty heavy issues that supersede your airy blatherings.

This morning, however, a new hypothesis needled its way into my medulla oblongata:

What if I'm done? Tapped? Sapped of my pedantical chi? Perhaps I've failed to acknowledge that my mental pantry holds only finite supply of ideas, much like the earth's helium stores which are slated to expire sometime around 2043.

Maybe it's time to come to terms with it. After all, who wants to make Shake 'n' Bake with pork chops that expired last Tuesday?

Think of all the ill-advised artistic follow-up works which litter the pop culture cemetery:

After recording the classic Frampton Comes Alive, Peter Frampton probably should have named the next album, Sorry, Dead Again. Or how about all the ill-fated spin-off shows, like  Joanie Loves Chachi?  Let's just say it's a good thing she loved him, because every one else wanted to strangle him with his own freaking mullet.

I don't want to be end up like Jack Tripper in Three's a Crowd or Joey in, well, Joey. Hey, if the tank is dry, there's no shame, which is why I tearfully bid you farewell, loyal readers.

Just kidding. I've got a prostate exam coming up. Who else can I tell about it?

My Secret to Offensive, Yet Tasteful, Blog Posts.

Today, I'm doing a little bit of pre-Spring cleaning.

For the past blogteen months, I've posted every two or three days. You may be surprised to hear, however, that the words don't seep directly from my primal brain stem to the digital world; I actually keep a journal.

I carry it around pretty much any time I'm wearing clothes. In the event that a topic bobs its noggin to the surface, I can jot it down before it's lost to the ether of my consciousness, before something shiny derails my runaway train of thought.

Sometimes, the topic is obvious. When Sarah Palin claims to be a foreign policy expert because two black people live in Wasilla, I'll latch onto something like that. But frequently, I need to peruse my backlog of scribblings in order to come up with a decent post.

When combing through my archives, I'll often discover those "What the hell were you thinking?" ideas, infractions which found life on the printed page, but the referee showed up later to throw the flag. So, before I permanently stomp these stories into the cold, damp ground, here are the titles of posts I never have, and never will, write:

"People at Work Who I'd Like to See Naked."

"My Favorite Surprise Movie Endings."

"An Open Apology to Everyone I've Accidentally Sweat On."

"My New Look for the New Year: Ponytails and Skinny Jeans."

"I'm a Doctor, Not a Barber: Why My Vasectomy Bill Included the Cost of a Disposable Razor."

"Shhhh! Guess What My Company Has Planned for Next Fall?"

"My Favorite Daughter."

"Hey, Kids! Exercise is Stupid."

Naturally, I have others, but the crux of this piece is to show, mostly to my wife, that I do possess a filter.

It's porous and wafer thin, but it catches the big chunks.

Reflections of a shallow pond turns one!

He's a big boy now.

Tomorrow, my baby turns one. Like any other one-year-old's birthday, it's time to hear those phrases like "Why is his head so big? Is that normal?" and "He's got to get severely dehydrated from all of that drooling. Is it normal stick his foot in his mouth so much?"

Reflections of a shallow pond began innocently enough, on July 13, 2009, after my younger daughter called me at work, imploring me to talk to my wife about the embarrassing outfit in which she was about to leave the house. 162 posts later, this journal has become a form of therapy, a forum where I can examine the inner and outer workings of life, culture and fatherhood.

I don't want to beat anyone too severely with the Cane of Boredom, so here are just a few statistics. Since I attach labels to every post, the overwhelming tag leader is kids (92), with family (26) and dad (9) trailing in the distance. The most read posts are this one, this one, this one and this one.

I think the coolest aspect to writing this ongoing manifesto is the feedback from friends, family and total strangers. It's added a dimension to my middle-aged existence which was completely off my radar. Modern social networking is a powerful instrument.

Almost every time I post something, I think, "Okay, that's it. I've covered everything." And then, invariably, I'll be standing in the shower, lathering my filthy chest, and another topic will pop into my brain, like a unicorn zit on class picture day.

So thanks to everyone for taking the time to read and comment. And maybe by the time this baby turns two, he won't want to stick his face in the Safeway Sponge Bob cake while bouncing in his high chair.

Anatomy of a blogger: break it down

Over my past 92 posts to Reflections of a shallow pond, I've deciphered a few patterns in the topics I expound upon. The reason I started writing this manifesto in the first place was to document the escapades of my family, especially the kids. How often do we parents hear, "Oh, you need to write that down. If you don't, you'll forget about the time your daughter made a twelve-room castle out of cardboard and duct tape, or how the other daughter longed to drink a 'crappuccino'?"

I didn't expect to burst at the seams with ideas, to be giddy about writing this life log, but it's really turned into a fun outlet. And even though I had no pre-meditated format, the themes can be narrowed down to:

1) Family and kids.
2) Recollections of my youth.
3) Stories of everyday experiences.
4) Opinions about social issues and pop culture.

I think we all reach a time in our lives when our concept of the future begins to narrow and the past bursts wide open. I feel like I've been driving through the industrial area of my life and stumbled upon a massive warehouse, containing pallets of experiences and anecdotes. And here's the best part—someone just taught me how to drive the forklift.

I'm 47 years old. When I hear myself talk, I hear the voice of a twenty-year-old, warming up in the on-deck circle for life. Then I gaze upon my gray-whiskered face in the mirror, and wonder, "Why is the Quaker Oats guy staring back at me?" I'll see a picture of a criminal or celebrity in the newspaper and think, "He's got to be at least ten years older than I am." As it turns out he's three years younger.

I'm not feeling sorry for myself here. Oh, no. In fact, it's quite the opposite. This blog has been a cathartic, personal journey. It has illuminated the true richness of life. Thanks for listening.