JD Salinger accurately expressed why writing is so hard (at least for me) when he said that immediately after publishing a book he felt like he was walking around town with his pants around his ankles. I agree with that metaphor and then some: writing creatively for others is not just leaving the house with no pants; it’s dipping your balls in a cup of ice water just before going onstage in the “buck” with a spotlight on your small, shriveled wang.
For the record, I don’t have a small cock (though I can’t say it’s big, and it’s certainly small enough to be insecure about).* But my cock—or anyone’s real, actual cock—is not what this piece is about. This piece is not really about real cocks. It’s more about writing cocks. The definition of which is simple: the amount of courage a writer has in creating and sharing his or her work with others. The bigger a writer’s writing cock, the braver he or she is with his or her art.
Most writers have small writing schlongs, which, of course, means they are overly sensitive about their work and what others think during both the writing and sharing processes. Some writers have big ones, but they are rare (and, unfortunately, many of these “writers” out there with massive writing schlongs don’t have a lick of talent). My writing schlong is, well, basically very tiny. And so for years I have been excruciatingly insecure about my work (which has led to extended bouts with the writing schlong version of ED: OCD).
Over the years, I’ve tried to increase the size of my writing schlong (with the hope that it would: 1) make me comfortable sharing my work; 2) allow me to stop obsessing over it; and 3) enable me to actually finish a thing or two). I’ve tried everything, guys, I really have. I went and got my MFA in writing**. I revisited grammar books from grade school. I kept a journal. I wrote (grinded through) several papers and short stories (none of which I’ve ever deemed “finished”). And I read every word E.B. White ever wrote***. The end result of all this engagement with the craft? I write wicked good emails and sound work-related documents.
I try to resist coming to conclusions, because (unlike what Opera would tell you and we would all like to believe) almost nothing is conclusive, and as soon as you do conclude anything you eliminate all other possibilities—which is dangerous. But if I had to sum things up and encourage a fellow writer cursed with a small writing schlong, here is what I’d say: 1) you can’t increase the size of your writing schlong any more than you can your actual schlong; 2) the key to working with a small schlong is probably the same as (Trevor and Jeff’s secret to) having sex with a small schlong: don’t think about your size. Just go bust a nut and/or express some love and/or make that baby. Don’t lose sight of your purpose; love your partner nice…
These days when I write, I try hard to stay focused on the message I am trying to convey, and I allow and remind myself to have fun. That is the whole point! If I see an opportunity to give a reader a little pleasure or impress him or her by showing off a tad, fine—I’ll try it. Maybe.
But I know that if I worry too much about pleasing others (a.k.a. my performance), I’ll never accomplish much—if anything—at the keyboard (or in the sac), and I’ll never (satisfy my wife or) be satisfied myself. And both of those scenarios would suck. (Dick.)
(Real dick, this time, I mean.)
*Consider this is a mere “sidebar”… But. I have a good friend with a monster dong—I mean huge, as in: He. Has. Three. Legs. And, despite the freakish nature of rocking an extra appendage, the dude got swagger… I can’t say so for sure myself (much to my chagrin), but there must be some form of confidence that comes with having a huge hog.
I don’t know—maybe I’m wrong, but I just feel like I’d be wicked happy all the time if I had a real big one. Even when life throws a guy with a big one a curveball, he can always remind himself that he at least has a big cock.
If I could supersize my wang for a day, I’d have a lot of fun. My inner monologue would go something like this: “Wassup, wassup, wassup. I’m the man. What’s that? Excuse me? Oh you wanna step to me, bitch? You sure about that?” Then bla-zam I’d grab my wang with two hands and swing and boo-ya-kasha; the perpetrator would be laid out. The End.
**Don’t do this unless you are wealthy and/or fortunate enough to have been born with a large writing schlong.