Hunter S. Thompson rose to fame writing about the Hell’s Angels. Donald E. Westlake gave unto the world John Dortmunder as an answer to his other creation, Parker (whose novels were written under the pseudonym Richard Stark). Maya Angelou showed the unbelievers the real reason why the caged bird sings, and Flannery O’Conner cemented her reputation as the patron saint of all things grotesque and strangely comical. Everywhere I go up and down those book stacks, it’s always the same old thing: flamboyantly talented shapers of tales, their massive and daunting talents sending me off scurrying into the shadows, forever dwindling into nothing as my own eroding mediocrity finally does me in.

Greetings friends, my name is James Moore. I am a writer, or at least I try to be. Though there are weeks that go by in between the gargantuan poetry binges where I write not a word, not a metaphor, not a dirty limerick nor even a clue. During those dark periods I try not to let the dry spell get to me, but when you have cobbled together an entire fraction of your life to the artistic cause you learn quickly that you had better produce if you want to survive in this game Jack. So as the low tides begin to sink in, I find myself ebbing away with a bout of depression carrying me dangerously close to the edge—I dare not go gently into that long goodnight, but sometimes that night isn’t so good, and it fights back.

Charles Bukowski wrote his first novel in a reported 28 days. Raymond Carver spent his hours as a hospital janitor writing stories. Bradbury, Asimov, Heinlein, and Clarke made mad dashes to the front offices of the pulp magazines, churning out thousands of words at a penny a turn. I envy each of them their tenacity. When I think of my slow burning despair, I look to these mad cats who went on before me and I wonder where they get the ideas and the energy to etch out those ideas.

And then I begin to ask myself: do those gifted with the prowess of Michael Jordan and Larry Bird feel the same stifling sense of futility when they put away their dusty Chuck Taylor’s and their cracked-leather Wilson basketballs? Is this faltering sensation peculiar to just the writers, already prone to fits of hysteria?

Fortunately it all comes back eventually. Before I go too far into the twilight zone, another crazy writing binge comes into my corner and prompts me to etch out four or five or even ten stories, a couple of essays, and maybe even a few collections’ worth of poetry just for good measure. Some of my best work comes right after I haven’t written in weeks—white hot with a ripe and festering passion, I allow the cliché to die long enough for the page to remake itself into something fresh to coincide with the black ink on white canvas. With my low tide coming back to shore with greater and greater breaking waves, I can finally find merit in the vocation I have chosen. So much for the sum of all fears.

I don’t know why I suffer these prolonged periods of doubt and mourning. The voice inside me tells me on a regular basis that I should grow up already—there’s no use in whining and griping and howling at all hours of the night, not when the beast comes back with a huge appetite. The hell of a dry spell was not an eternity, but merely a brief stay whilst I travel down the road along with Gulliver and Chaucer and Little Red Riding Hood. Really I have no reason to complain, but I do anyway because it’s more fun that way.

My name is James Moore, ladies and gentlemen. I am a writer, or at least I often think of myself as one. When the nights get so chock-full of ideas that are just aching to get let out, and the pen and the paper just to don’t release them at an appropriate speed, and the morning sun is just around the corner, that’s when the job is worthwhile. But still it sucks when I can feel the fuel starting to dwindle, and the hand starts to slack off at the gate, and the pace is dying before I can find the antidote.

So what does one do during those brief moments of mental and emotional stagnation? Do these casual pit stops come at too high a price, or does even the most brilliant of writers need the chance to recharge? Am I alone, or does Stephen King want to grab a cola and a slice and tell me where I need to chill for a second and let it come naturally? Do poets sleep, or do they just feed off of the stardust of lost horizons?

I don’t know where the inspiration comes from, nor do I actually need to know. If I begin to think too hard on this one, then maybe it will leave me entirely and I will be completely dry; believe me, nothing is worse for a writer stranded out in the hot summer sun than being left with not a drop to drink.

I like having the stories come, even when they sometimes are slow getting to my door; it’s better to be fashionably late than being a no-show.

Nice to meet you friend. My name is James Moore, and I like to fancy myself a writer when I can make it happen. The words sometimes stick to the roof of my mouth, but if I work at it a few moments I can pour forth with a new fervor and strength. Sometimes it’s just a line or two, and other times it’s enough pages of verse to paper the walls of my house; whichever the case I am thankful for the chance to get out the work. Bukowski may have written his first novel in 28 days, but in my humble opinion it wasn’t that strong a novel—on every grade it’s a midlevel Bukowski gem (Post Office in no way compares to Ham on Rye). When I get the work done I want it to be done right.

The nights when it gets too hard to even think about writing are a lackluster experience to be sure. But on the days when I can crank out four or five poems in a couple of hours and have a couple of them be worthy of a good copy polish I feel like I may have something. Maya Angelou may know why the caged bird sings, and Hunter Thompson flew pretty far with some fallen angels to get out his first major work, but I for one will not go back that far to reminisce about the past. I live in the present, and my words are current, and I still have a trick or two up my sleeve that even the old masters don’t know about. That’s what makes me a voice all my own, and for that I am thankful.

Well that’s the long and short of it man. So nice to meet you, and I’ll go ahead and let you get back to your Sunday supplementary reading. As for me and my gang, we have some more pages to finish before the tide lets out.