Earnest Hemingway Did Not Air-Pop His Corn

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You’ve come home from whatever it is that you do for money while pretending not to be a writer.  Now there is that fear: If I find myself alone, I may be obliged to write.

Never fear.  This is why this blog exists: to show you that, even when the whole universe favors you writing, there are still ways to avoid it.

Let’s have a little popcorn snack.  Get some oil smoking and throw some dead corn seed right in there.

That Air Popper someone gave you and your third ex-wife for a wedding present – the one thing she let you have when she kicked you out?  Oh please, the only place to use it is in a story as an ironic murder weapon.  In real life, you cannot feed a soul on hot air.

But I see you there at the stove – you threw the popcorn into the smoking oil then looked for the right lid as kernels started exploding.  You were brave, you told yourself, for looking for the lid only after you’d thrown the kernels in.  Your life needs a GoPro.

You get the whole greasy mess into a bowl, and your fingers follow – ravenous fingers that toss the hot crunchy, oiled and salted mini clouds into your mouth with abandon.  The glory of the popcorn!

But what seemed so promising falls into your gut as a quagmire of dead greasy corn seeds, and the guilty grease won’t wipe off your fingers. Not completely.

There is no way to write great literature with greasy fingers.

Now all that’s left to do is call your third ex-wife, a dying bottle of Jack Daniels in hand, and beg like the humiliated almost writer you almost were.

At least you did not use the Air Popper.  This time.

 

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