Writing Perfectionist Pens Pap

Here goes. I’m jumping into the dark, scary waters of quick, careless carefree writing to generate more views. I know my big problem, and and have talked big about doing something about it.

Big deal. Writing perfectionist pens pap. Or at least plans to.

Stop the presses.


Now it’s time to practice what I preach and actually pump out some written pap, hopefully in about the same time it would take me to snarf down pap of the “edible” variety – you know, the cheap, popular concoctions of chemicals, vaguely approximating real food, passed down from a minimum-wage worker assembly line, onto a plastic McTray, and down my gullet?

Not that I’ve been eating much recently, other than the food I manage to quickly swipe off abandoned restaurant tables before some busybody busser gets to it first.

See what I mean? I’m pumping out pap. If quality writing were inversely related to sentence shortness, the one-sentence monstrosity of a paragraph that precedes the previous would put me in the running for a Nobel Prize in writing.

Do I make myself clear?

man-286477_640(Writing perfectionist pens pap.)

The debt collectors are getting restless and bold, like jackals circling a wounded antelope. Thankfully, the phone company cut my service, so I’m now blissfully free of those angry, threatening messages that just went on and on.

Yet I worry about that inevitable, first knock on my door.

Do you care about preventing homelessness? Well don’t just talk. Here’s a chance to take concrete action. Please. Read my posts. Better yet, share them, pap or not.

I’m hoping someone with money might take pity, and pass along enough cash to get me by for another month.


Is it too much to ask for a patron? Someone cultured, sophisticated, appreciative of great art, music, and literature, blessed with ample gray-matter and a fat wallet? Wealthy, aristocratic patrons ensured Mozart, Davinci, and other geniuses spent their hours creating artistic masterpieces, not emptying outhouses or slinging slop.

Yet those were better times. As I lamented in a previous post I’m now largely recycling, the cultured few starve, while the benighted masses reign.

Writing perfectionist pens pap. I’ve just pumped out a post about nothing better than pumping out a post, besides begging for financial mercy. At least it seems I’m well over the recommended 300 hundred word minimum for publication now. Saints be praised.


Shall it be monster trucks or trailer parks? Or is that too high-brow? I sit debating a view-grabbing topic for my next post.

As I put pen to paper, I can almost feel the literary masters of yesteryear, under my feet, spinning.

Pass me the Pepto-Bismol. Please.

Signing off,


(images from Pixabay)

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