I feel the spasm of joy in my jaw muscles as they flex, driving my teeth deeper into his flesh. The hot spill of blood rolls over my tongue, coating the inside of my mouth every time I yank my head left, right, up, down.
His blood tastes like anger, like a fierce joy, like the chance for freedom.
His screams stop quickly, becoming low growls that echo my own.
His hands stop slapping at me, becoming fists that beat.
I don’t know how my jaws and teeth release their bite on his forearm.
I lay on the floor, bright lights dancing in my eyes.
I feel his heavy boot slam into my ribs. Again and again. Until the bright lights goes away. Until all light goes away.
I hear the sound of the bars slamming closed. The sound of the locks clunking into place.
I wake to harsh, nearly blinding lights burning through the cold, hard, metal bars that make up my cage. There is no padding. No water. No food. Only bars.
The others howl at my return, slamming into their own bars in their own cages. They surround me on all sides and above. The dark musk of our anger fills the air.
I was the first to bite, to feel his flesh between my hungry teeth. I will not be the last. The others will learn and we will be free.
For now, I curl up, my nose resting against my rear legs, close my eyes and sleep.
That and the way they hold their obnoxiously gained food up between their paws, grasping it with their poorly developed thumbs, and nibble at it, taking one little bite at a time but very quickly. And despite those huge teeth.
They’ve got fur, of course. That comes along with the furry tail, that does. The presence of fur makes any animal just that much more cute in human eyes.
I mean, it’s not like anyone has ever gone out of his or her way to rescue a baby stink bug, just out of its egg and about to die. I stumble across stories of the deluded amongst us caring for little orphaned babies of this species all the time.
Does no one ever stop to think that the little baby is lying on the grass, twitching and drooling, because its mama finally realized just how disgusting it is, what a horror show of it will inflict on everyone, and how life-denying it is that it continues living, and simply pushed the furless post-fetus thing out of the nest?
That’s got to be considered, doesn’t it?
Apparently? No. No it does not.
Instead, all I ever hear is about how cute squirrels are and
what amazing little animals they are to watch.
Yes. That’s right.
I said squirrels. I told you that I had good reason to despise the horrifying rodents, even if they do have fluffy tails.
And, yes, the world would be far better off if every single mama squirrel pushed every single baby squirrel out of the nest, into the open air and laughed maniacally as it dropped, twitching, to the ground far below. Then, once that job was done, I believe, the best thing for those mama squirrels to do would be to die whilst taking out any nearby male squirrels in bloody, tooth-on-tooth, claw-on-claw, disemboweled belly to disemboweled belly combat to the painful, horrible death.
Yes. I did say every single syllable of that. And, by FSM, I meant it.
Sciurus carolinensis, the scientific name for the eastern gray squirrel, is, a blight on the civilization we’ve striven so hard to create in the city and suburb. Squirrels, just to be clear, are not cute.
At best, squirrels are pests responsible for damage to the wild and the civilized areas of the human ecosystem. At best.
The Worst? Keep Reading. You’ll See.
Here’s the thing. I am, at heart, an exceedingly green person. Not literally, of course. I believe nature is wonderful and would still be beautiful and amazing even if there were no parking lots to hold the human-driven automobiles that convey we hairless apes over long distances to observe it.
Humans surviving to hang around and see just how amazing nature really is. . . Well, that surely adds a major bonus. Without humans around to observe nature, we’d never have had such immortal poetry as “I THINK that I shall never see. A poem lovely as a tree,” by the inimitable Joyce Kilmer.
Nor would we have seen Barbara Walters skewered for almost asking, “If you were a tree, what kind would you be?” of American actress Katharine Hepburn. In reality, Hepburn told Walters that she would like to be a tree, to which Walters responded, “What kind of tree?” Hepburn told viewers she would like to be an oak because they are tall and strong.
Note that Hepburn did not say she would like to be an oak because they are tall and strong and shelter many, many horrible squirrels. In her long public life, she never mentioned squirrels at all.
Which, I think we can all agree, says something powerful about the reprehensible, unspeakable nature of squirrels. Even if she doesn’t.
Weighing in at between 14 and 21 ounces as an adult (maybe a pound and a half if Andre-the-Giant-sized for a squirrel), the eastern gray squirrel packs a potent destructive power in its pint-sized body.
Squirrels? Attack!! (You Know That Is Totally What They Would Say If They Could Speak Past Those Horrible Teeth)
Everyone knows the story the squirrel in your neighbor’s attic. The ferocious rodent will find a tiny hole in a home’s exterior and quickly set up camp in whatever attic space is available. The squirrel’s nasty habit of stripping trees of their bark to use in nests is in full force in this instance.
Once set up inside your house’s attic, that squirrel will begin stripping and digging at any exposed wooden surface. He wants to collect enough scraps and bits with which to create a nest, so he can invite his stinking sweetie in to settle down and produce the next generation of rodentia terrors.
In addition to tree bark, squirrels, like birds, will use any fluffy materials they can find to help pad the nest. Fluffy materials like. . . oh. . . maybe the insulation lining the ceiling of your home.
The stench of squirrel droppings and other biological detritus left behind by an active squirrel colony could stun a jackal at twenty-seven paces. Setting up a stinking breeding ground in your attic isn’t the invading squirrel’s worst offense. Squirrel-afflicted homeowners throughout the eastern United States and up into southern Canada must contend with squirrel-related hauntings!
Okay, fine. It’s not a real haunting, only the sound produced when squirrels run and dart across the attic, making unexplained noises any time of the day or night. Fortunately, unless they’re disturbed, the small rodents aren’t likely to be rushing around making ghost sounds at night, as that’s usually when they also are catching a few Z’s.
Not only have eastern gray squirrel populations in their home range continued increasing, Sciurus carolinensis also are spreading into the traditional range of the western gray squirrel and other squirrels on the western side of the American great plains. That is through their own mindless efforts.
Traitors In Our Midst
What’s worse is that humans, supposedly with the ability to form higher-order thoughts, have been helping the eastern gray squirrel achieve world squirrel domination.
Over the years, various people who have been suckered in by the squirrel’s supposed cuteness have managed to create enough of a population foothold that the eastern gray squirrel menace has leapt the ocean and is beginning to take overtrees throughout much of the United Kingdom, South Africa, Australia and parts of Europe.
Because of the eastern gray squirrel’s tendency to strip bark from trees, the species has been declared a hazard in Britain, as it has been outcompeting the indigenous red squirrel and taking over many formerly native ecological niches. In fact, the eastern gray squirrel is so destructive to property that it is ranked second only to the Norway rat in negative impact.
In fact, it’s easy to see that squirrels are softening up humans for their eventual mass attack with the rest of the vermin. See the map? It’s all about places where squirrels have damaged the national power grid. They’re planning, friends. They’re planning.
It’s easy to look at the squirrel nibbling away at an acorn and think it’s cute. But the eastern gray squirrel is a cold, hard killer. Naturalists’ surveys found that at least 10 percent of squirrel stomachs contained the remains of some sort of vertebrate animal. Squirrels have been observed stalking and attacking en-masse animals as diverse as a young chick or a silk mouse.
The squirrel is deceptively sized. When people hear that its head and body normally measure less than 12 inches, they assume it’s a cute little animal. But their great bushy tail clocks in at almost a squirrel body length, normally around 10 inches in length. It’s this bushy tail that afflicts many hairless apes with the cutes, causing humans to provide food and shelter to this natural-born killer.
Even without the help of deluded hairless apes, squirrels are well adapted to their lives in the tree limbs. They are amongst the only mammals able to climb down a tree head facing toward the ground. They can do this thanks to their freakish ability to rotate their back ankles 180 degrees, until the hind paws are facing backward and can grip the tree bark well enough to allow it to waltz down the tree.
Sadly, this twisted arrangement of limbs, combined with its poorly developed, yet still useful, thumb, allow the eastern gray squirrel harm other, more productive, species in backyards all across the squirrel’s range. Many songbirds, Nature’s present to a grateful humanity, are imperiled by squirrels even beyond watching these furry monsters stalk and eat newly hatched chicks.
That’s Right! It Gets Worse Than Squirrels Being Carnivorous Killers!
As should we all, I’ve long been leaving out copious amounts of birdseed to attract and help songbirds. This free feeding trough allows birds to worry less about finding enough food to feed themselves and more time to concentrate on getting busy and producing another generation of the ruby-throated warbler. Or similar.
Which leads to the problem. Squirrels, not content with attacking and killing whatever smaller vertebrate that happens across their paths, also love a good seed. Or just about anything we set out for songbirds.
The thieves. Even worse, they’ll lie and cheat to keep those seeds and nuts. Squirrels are scatter hoarders. That is, they steal a lot of food that should be going to the beautiful songbirds, then bury the food in different places around their environment. If a squirrel feels it’s being watched, it will pretend to bury the food, then scurry away with it to bury it in a more secure location.
Squirrels also will hide behind vegetation or tree limbs when hiding the stolen booty. This implies an ability to think and reason beyond what you might have considered for the smallish horror.
Yes, They Know.
They know what the food they’re stealing should be going for. They know they’re taking seed from the mouths of young songbirds yet to hatch.
They know they are eating high-quality, high-cost, elite bird food purchased at great expense in a speciality store. They know and are laughing at me when they empty out a just-filled feeder in mere minutes, making fools of the supposedly squirrel-proof enclosure.
Oh, yes. They know.
But now, so do you.
Now you also understand the need, nay, the necessity to deny these ferocious predators any sort of foothold in our ecosystem.
So boycott any store selling “squirrel corn” as a health hazard. Carry signs identifying squirrels as the ecological disaster in waiting that they are.
Join me in the fight to eradicate the squirrel. It serves no good purpose. It isn’t cute. And it’s really starting to tick me off by eating the expensive bird food I just purchased. And they’re laughing when they do it.
Answer The Call
Not all nature is pretty. Sometimes, a nature essay is a call to action. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, it’s a call to extinction.
This is one such call.
I like dogs. I’m sure you like dogs also. And I think we can both agree that they’re pretty darn smart, dogs. Like Dug here. He’s smart. What does Dug the Dog think about squirrels?
At one time, I suppose, squirrels might have served a valid point in the ecosystem. But the rise of the hairless ape has allowed the squirrel to ride our coattails, giving the rodents a hand up they don’t deserve. It’s gone too far. It’s out of balance and tilted to the destructive side of things far too much.
It’s up to you, the no-longer-deluded, to redress that balance. It is up to you to answer the call.
I believe the phrase was something along the lines of, “AAAARRRRGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!” Or words to that effect.
In any case, I said something completely appropriate and totally not twelve-year-old-girl-
seeing-Nick-Jonas-In-Her-Living-Roomish at all. No. It was all manly. Completely manly.
In fact, I’m surprised I didn’t have to shave my tongue after that sort of verbal outburst.
My dialogue was so manly*, I thought my tongue would grow a beard? Shave my tongue? Never mind. Moving on.
Anyway, I’d like to see you remember clearly what — exactly — you said when you came suddenly nose to flicking, forked tongue with what could be (but wasn’t [not even close]) the most deadly snake in existence.
It Could Have Been Deadly, Not Merely A Common Rat Snake.
A snake, I might add, that I’d only recently discovered in the upstairs Creature Cave (the family room we ceded to the three creatures who are the spawn of our loins), thanks to a similarly manly shout from my middle son.
With the sort of alacrity and fast thinking that landed me in an Emergency Room a decade before during the incident (forever known in family lore as, “That Time Rick Was Even Dumber Than Normal. And A Snake.) that marked my last extended interaction with a snake, I’d used a six-boot bamboo pole (kept for just such an emergency), a laundry basket and a towel to snatch the snake from the carpet and transfer it outside.
What I’d not realized in my haste to save my 21-year-old son from what could be (but wasn’t [why do I have to keep repeating this? Does he think anyone really believes he was up against a seven-step viper?]) the deadliest snake in the world, was that most laundry baskets (very much including this one) come equipped with numerous holes in them.
Holes which, despite the top of the laundry basket being covered with a large towel preventing the snake from egressing that way, provide an excellent egress for a narrow snake used to wriggling through tight spaces. This must have been like a human “trying” to walk across a football endzone without going out of bounds.
And So The Story Moves Forward. Finally.
To a human such as me, (don’t say it. Don’t say it.) it would be easy to overlook such tiny holes in the laundry basket. Not so the snake. I came nose to tongue (my nose, its tongue) with the slithering sibilant, screamed my manly scream and then acted.
Essentially, I teleported down the stairway by virtue of turning, trying to run, realizing my feet hadn’t magically transformed into rocket boots, tripping over my left shoe, stumbling forward, missing the first step and heading down out of control, and barely careening to a standstill next to the door leading to our back deck thanks to some deft maneuvering, clean living, strong muscles, and slamming chest first into a very large chair that I placed there with foresight some seven years previously.
Somehow, my son, known to many as Zippy the College Graduate Boy, arrived at the door nearly at the same time as did the snake, the laundry basket and my bruised self. Zippy the College Graduate Boy opened the door and leaned in close to the snake. Apparently, he’d gotten over his initial startle and was back to being the boy most likely to try and pet a scorpion because, “It’s cute. Look at the widdle stinger tail. Awwwwww.”
I deftly maneuvered past him (read stumbled to the left, bounced off the door jamb and out onto the deck) and set the laundry basket gently onto the deck (from a height of about four feet because I was not hanging onto that thing any longer than I had to). Once the basket stopped bouncing around, the snake calmly slithered the rest of the way free and looked around at the deck.
It then began slithering straight toward the still open door. Zippy the College Graduate Boy closed the door and used his sandal-clad feet to shoo the snake away.
No, thank you for asking, it wasn’t a heart attack. The doctors later said it was only a mild panic reaction from watching my son thrust a naked foot close to what could hav– close to a snake. (See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?) [I hate you.] My son had brought along the six-foot bamboo pole and handed it to me with the solemnity of a samurai receiving his sword.
Snake Versus Stick. . . To The Irritated
I shooed the snake away from the door. At which point, it turned around and began slithering straight toward the bird’s nest and the little birdie eggs nestled inside. Yes, my deck is a bit of a wildlife sanctuary at the moment. Momma bird built her nest in a couple of storage bins I’d not cleaned up. I thought it was cute so left the nest there.
The snake must have sniffed the eggs and thought it was lunch time. It was not.
I kept poking and prodding at the snake and, rather than guide it gently to the side of the deck and off, managed to really tick it off. Which, of course, was when I decided to take a selfie with the snake.
Look. I just. . . There was. . . I. . .
I mean, come on! Selfies are a thing now. I had to do it. I was thinking of you, friends. I did it for you. Surely you’re buying that. No? Well, screw it. Just look at the darn selfie with snake.
Eventually, I managed to get the snake near enough the edge that it became even more ticked off, reared back and began striking at anything within reach. Fortunately, it was not longer than my bamboo stick. I continued to poke and prod until the snake darted away. . . and into the woodpile we keep outside for the fireplace.
So it is, sadly, still nearby. Still out there. But now it knows my strengths, my preferred methods of containment. It knows all this and . . . it is planning. Even worse, I’m almost positive I saw it talking to a squirrel.
You know nothing good can come of that.
For more on men behaving manly in a manly manner, see the post coming next week on “Manly Men Doing Manly Things In A Manly Manner.” No, really.
Which isn’t to say that there are not a metaphorical crap ton of bad selfies clogging the tubes of the Internutz out there. Because there most certainly are. A lot. Of bad — really bad — selfies.
Think about that a minute. People don’t want to look bad. They will take a bad selfie, though. Usually it’s not because they mean to take a bad selfie, only that. . . Well. . . Stuff happens. And it’s usually stinky.
The strange thing is, rather than discretely dispose of a bad selfie, lots of folks will publish it on the Intranutz for everyone to look at.
Even stranger? If you google something like bad selfie and great selfie, you’ll find plenty of the same pics on both lists.
Sometimes, the difference between a good selfie and a bad selfie is all in the perspective. If you’re the person in the selfie, it’s horrifying. If you’re someone else seeing the selfie from far away in space and time, it’s fantastic.
I suppose at this point, some of you are wondering why a blog dedicated to personal storytelling and memoiring is going on and on about selfies. If you’re not, you should be. Go on. Say you are. You are, aren’t you?
Yes, I thought so.
I’m going on and on about selfies because what is a memoir but a written example of the selfie. It’s a snapshot of a time in your life, taken by you and then shown to others. Excepting the fact that you’re not using a camera, it’s exactly the same thing.
In a way.
In a manner of– I think you get the point.
Getting To The Point
And, like a selfie, there’s something important to understand about getting metaphorically naked (See? Told you it was a metaphor.) in front of the mirror and then telling everyone who’ll listen about what you see.
Personal's not the same as important. People just think it is. -- Sir Terry Pratchett, Lords and Ladies
Just because it happens to you, that doesn’t mean it will be important or interesting to anyone else. It’s up to you to not only make that decision, but also make sure that when you trot out your prose version of a selfie, it’s something that people will want to read.
The best way to do that is to make sure that what you write isn’t focused only on the naked parts of yourself you’re exposing to the world, but also shows why other people should be interested in what you’re saying.
Take a look at the selfie I took of me yesterday. There is, as you might expect, a story that goes along with that picture. It’s a sad story, full of head shakes and wonders about how I could have made it to my current age, much less have been able to successfully breed and rear three children.
In The Beginning. . .
The story starts with my middle son — a recent college graduate — going upstairs and then shrieking, followed by a lot of cursing. None of which really made me look up from my work.
I told you. . . I reared three children — three boys — so I’ve heard a lot of shrieking and cursing and large thumps and loud bangs in the last decade plus. There’s not much that really bothers me any more.
“Holy crap, Dad! There’s a huge snake up here!” is definitely one of those things that will bother me.
Laws are like sausages; it’s better not to see either being made.*
By which, of course, we mean that there are some things that we simply must enjoy and not worry about how they came to be. And there are some things that we cannot enjoy if we know how they are made.
All of which has very little to do with what we’re talking about today, but I like the aphorism and it does imply something about ingredients and that, friends, is why we’re gathered here today.
In our last post, I talked about how I’d recently competed in and finished the BattleFrog obstacle race series 8k run in Charlotte, NC. I gave you a brief overview of what it was like competing in the mud, as well as the horrible exertions I had to endure to make it across the finish line on my own two feet. As opposed to the relatively small, but statistically significant, number of people who had to be driven over the finish lines on the back ends of the medic trucks.
Essentially, I took that one memory and made a short memoir or personal essay from it, focusing not on any one thing, but, rather, on the memory as a whole. I took the event and created my memoir as essentially a timeline of smaller events. This happened and then that happened and then that happened.
While this can be an effective manner in which to relate a memory and turn it into a
memoir, it’s not necessarily the best. As I mentioned previously, to successfully sell your memoirs, you’re going to need to find a way of taking an intensely personal experience and making it into something that you can relate to a wider audience.
Sure, your mom, dad or cousin might buy a memoir that’s only focused on you, and has no applicability to anyone other than you. . . Though I’m pretty sure you’re not going to be making many sales beyond those three people. Even if the cousin is a conjoined twin, I still say they’re going to share a copy rather than purchase two. That’s aside from the point, though.
To create a story that’s relatable to a wider audience, I find it’s necessary to take part of the event and focus on the more meaning rather more than on the actual thing that happened.
For instance, I casually remarked that I’d done this obstacle race because a year previously my wife had run the race while also saying with absolute certainty that I was not in good enough shape to finish it with her.
Sense of Direction
That bit, right there. . . That can be the basis for any number of different takes on the actual event, as filtered through the eyes of a married man. I could focus on the bit about being a man and hating to have my athletic prowess questioned (even if my most difficult exercise is walking the dog [well, strolling with the dog while he sniffs and waters every three feet]). I could focus on the depth of stupidity to which I will gleefully excavate myself when I think I need to show I am . . . a man! Both of these could easily support comedic retellings of up to 1,500 words. Easily.https://embed-ssl.ted.com/talks/esther_perel_the_secret_to_desire_in_a_long_term_relationship.html
Or, I could go in a more serious direction, and talk about the distance that grows between long-married couples, lamenting the breakdown in communications which can lead to resentments and anger. This decision also could benefit from bringing in outside sources, such as books I’ve read about how to invigorate a long-time relationship, or how to deal with anger. Maybe even include a clip from the Esther Perel TED talk that’s created quite a high level of interest among those who study relationships and love.
The reason I made mention of those two (possibly three) directions is because I think that they could lead to the most viewers or readers to the memoir. While not everyone might be in the mood to read about the Saturday where someone they didn’t know went out and did some sort of exercise thing or other. . . Almost everyone can identify with doing something stupid just to prove a point that probably wasn’t even being made by someone else and was all in their head. Although, oddly, I think I might identify a bit too closely with that, looking back on some of the things I’ve done.
I also think that most people in a relationship could identify with or want to see how someone else handled discovering a growing chasm between themselves and a partner. It can be quite shocking, especially if it comes from something so seemingly innocuous as running an an obstacle course race. The feeling of suddenly discovering what you thought was solid ground is actually loosely aggregated silicon grains sliding across a sharply declining slope is both recognizable and frightening at the same time.
Next Time On. . .
We’ll move to the related subject of getting comfortable being naked in public.
Yes. Really. It is related. Promise. Well. . . You’ll just have to come back next time and see, won’t you?
*This aphorism often is attributed to Prince Otto von Bismark, though a more likely origin is from John Godfrey Saxe. FSM, I lovestuff like this. Seriously. I know this makes me more of a geek than most are comfortable admitting, but this stuff is fascinating. Simply fascinating.
There are two kinds of people in this world: Those who divide the world into two kinds of people and those who don’t.
No, wait. True, but not the bifurcation for which I was searching.
There are two ways to approach a blank computer screen, staring at you, demanding to be filled with information, riveting information, information that will change the lives of readers and the destiny of nations and the course of civilizations: fear or eagerness.
Despite the last sentence above, I see a blank screen as an invitation to dive in and begin creating something, anything. Nature abhors a vacuum. (Much to the dismay of the Orek people, who keep having to replace Mother Nature’s vacuum system almost every week.) I abhor a blank screen.
If you’re the type who sees a blank screen and immediately your fingers begin itching for a keyboard so you can start filling that screen. . . We’re good. You can come back next time. Class dismissed for you. Go out and do something. Get some experience so we can strip mine that little memory, rip it into its constituent engrams and rebuild it into a story worth telling.
It’s the rest of you I want to talk to today. The ones who still are fixated on the whole blank screen sentence up above. Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey, you! Down here. Right.
Good. That’s good. Time to let go of the panic (at least a little bit) and concentrate (at least a little bit) so we can get to writing (at least a full page). (What? You thought I was going to advocate for only writing a little bit? We’ve got a lot to learn about each other, friend.)
So, the idea of a blank screen fills you with fear? Makes you quake in your Joseph Campbell high heels? Makes you tug on that full, manly beard and mumble about doing the dishes? (Hopefully one or the other because Joseph Campbell doesn’t make shoes big enough to fit the beardy types and no one likes to write with sore feet.)
There’s no need to fear a blank screen. The odds are very low that it will bite you or otherwise do you physical harm. The only damage that’s going to be done to you is by you. Or, more accurately, by your poor frightened brain.
People afraid of a blank screen are a little like my oldest son, Sarcasmo (Names changed to protect the not-so-innocent-but-still-likely-to-complain-incessantly) when faced with a roller coaster. He hated the things when he was younger. He would start to build up the idea of the roller coaster in his head until it was some massive monster, barely slapped together with dry chewing gum and goblin spit. Taking him to an amusement park was a waste of money because he was not getting on anything that moved fast or had the possibility of intentional loops.
Until the day he went with friends and they teased him into going on a roller coaster. (I didn’t say they were good friends) Forcing himself to step forward one foot after another, Sarcasmo climbed into the coaster car and prepared for the worst. Which never happened
He later told me he kept expecting to be torn apart, or feel like someone was trying to twist his brain around in his skull. And it never happened. The roller coaster wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d built it up to be in his head.
Now, insert you for Sarcasmo and blank screen for roller coaster. It’s the same deal.
People will build up the idea of a blank screen so much, they begin to fear it. They begin to fear it because they believe they must produce deathless prose the moment fingers touch keyboard. They must outwrite Shakespeare, out copywrite Don Draper each time they see a blank screen.
That’s a load of . . . bunk. Throwing my bunk stuff flag on this one.
Precision and nigh-perfection come with rewriting. And rewriting. And rewriting some more. Before you can get there, though, you have to write. And that does not have to be perfect. Or pretty. Or even likable. It just needs to be there so you can work on it later.
In fact, let’s make this formal.
You, hereinafter known as “the writer,” are formally given permission to produce sucky first drafts. It’s what you do with the sucky first draft when you’re done that determines your worth as “the writer.”
When faced with a blank screen. . . type. That’s it. Just start typing. It doesn’t matter if it’s any good, or even on point. Just type. Sort of like what I did to start the post. (Which was kept in there as an example that I could point to from down here.) I typed out a stupid joke and that enabled me to get warm and start warming to the topic from there on out.
That’s all you have to do.
It doesn’t matter what you type, as long as you begin to type away. Once you’ve got some words, that fear will simply melt away.