A Future Day in the Life of Powerblogger Trent P. Lewin


          Wake up. The sun is hot. The coffee is cold.

          On the news, a probe is passing Pluto, playing Plato on the spoons. But I’m in the yard. That’s right. I’m building a mudpile. A heap of earthly excrement that I’m shaping with my hands. Lathering with water. Getting it under my fingertips. Fuck yeah.

          The neighbor’s on his deck. “Hi Trent. What’s up? What are you doing there?”

          Making plans to go to Pluto. And play Plato on the spoons. “Fuck off Jerry. Have a great day though. Just do it while fucking off.”

          Go inside and sit down at the computer. It’s time to go. The time is now, my friends. This is the moment, and these are the days: this is the madness stuffed into our underpants that compels us to hit a keyboard – one stroke at a time. No matter how fast, it’s always one stroke at a time. And I’m ready – doesn’t matter that Jerry is next door, thinking about having vodka at seven in the morning. As though that’s wrong. As though something’s wrong with that.

          I go have a drink. Fuck yeah. I’m back at the computer. No, this is it. This is the actual moment I am going to start something great. Something big and grand and cleansed of all the typical bullshit that contaminates everything else I’ve ever created. I’m sorry for all the warts. They just grew. Came out of no where until they were distended and the puss started oozing out of them, all over my words. You can almost taste it. Sometimes, I do.

          I surf instead. Somehow, a girl lost all of her clothes in a strip club. A dead lady wrote a book, but it wasn’t any good. And the Iranians? Well this is important. This is the stuff worth spending time on, because the Iranians are promising not to blow us up. Thank god for that. Thank god. And oh hey, a dead Iranian lady just wrote a god-text that is blowing up the internet. It’s that good. And here I am, Trent Lewin. Not Iranian. Not a lady. No real connection to god at all. I’m just playing the spoons, tapping away at this song you are hearing.

          At the coffee shop, the guy behind the counter serves me hot beverage. “I asked for a bucket of it,” I tell him, when he hands me a cup.

          “Sir? I’m sorry, we don’t sell coffee in buckets.”

          I take him by the collar. “Do you not know who I am?”

          “Should I, sir?”

          “I’m Trent fucking Lewin. Writer. Jog your memory?”


          And I remember. I recall. These are memories I’ve made of things I’ve never done. Dreams and aspirations pissing on the sidewalk after the bar shuts down, sniveling its way into the gutter where they get preciously forgot. And I forgot. That I haven’t written it yet. Haven’t done it. Have failed in near every attempt to cajole the better notions and finer words that surely – surely! – lie inside and are keeping me awake at night. How did I forget? How could I have?

          So I’m at the table, drinking the coffee. Opening the computer. This is the moment. This is the time. This is it, right here. This is where it’s going to start, and this is the memory I’m going to make. This is the path to the masterpiece.

          I dial the number for Strasburg. “Hello Umba,” I say to him.

          “Trenty! How you doing? I thought you were taking some time!”

          “A few days. Doing some writing.”

          “Are you still at that, Trenty? What strange distraction you set for yourself from your life.”

          And it is a distraction. It’s a diversion from the proper course of civilization, like some army of elephants being herded on a riverbank, pounding the sand into a depression that changes the course of a river. I’m the elephant. I’m the river. I’m the fucking sand that gets drowned in the dust.

          “I’m going to do it, Umba. Today.”

          “Today, Trenty? What’s today? It’s just tomorrow put in reverse. Yesterday hopped up on steroids. Trust your friend Umba. Go buy a new car. Make some real money. And sit in the shade in Strasburg, under an umbrella on the beach. Then you will feel happy again Trenty!”

          But the coffee doesn’t think so. Neither does the old lady at the next table, reading a book that she frowns at because it’s not good enough. Because she could do better. And neither does the little college twat to my right, who’s tapping at a screenplay, a sequel to something he hasn’t written yet.

          So it’s the park, and I’m in the shade. And there’s a tree behind my back, a lake full of swans at the bottom of this hill. And I’m tapping away at the keys. Because this is it. These are the days, my friends. These are your moments, and mine. Better not let them get away. Better not question yourself later for not using them properly. Because they’re slippery, these moments. Little greasy garter snake fuckers that weave through your fingers and slip into your pants. It’s fun for a moment, but then kind of gets disquieting. Uncomfortable. And the next thing you know, you’re swatting yourself, trying to get free.

          “Sir, are you okay?” cries a fine patron of the park.

          I’m standing by the tree, shoving a snake down my pants.

          “Sir! Look, I can help if you want… just stop doing that and I’ll remove the snake. And then you can get back to your computer and your work.”

          She slides over and tries to help. But this snake is curling around my better parts now. Squeezing. And I’m pretty sure it’s nipping at me, like I’m some kind of oversized snack. The poor lady is unbuckling my belt. Slipping down my pants. But you can only stare at a snake curled around testicles for so long before you need to run off screaming, hands in the air – as though some Iranian dead lady just tried to nuke you, or stuff you into a probe heading for the spoon.

          I take the rest of my clothes off. I let it all out. Because this is how I’ve chosen to let it be. To let it have its way. It. That thing. You know what it is. It wiggles around inside of you and it’s got its fangs in your organs, and the only fucking thing that ever makes it feel okay is when you give it a voice. When you actually sit down and let it be, let it take over, let it tap on these keys as though you’re naked in a park, singing as you streak, a snake stuck to your sack. Fuck yeah. These are the days! This is the day! This is it. It’s going to start here. I’m going to give it the voice it deserves. I am. Doesn’t matter that I’m in the lake, necking with the swans as a beaver sucks on my toes. This is nature, bitch. You have to appreciate the outdoors. You have to savor it as you sing.

          And so I’m at home. Sitting on the porch. This is sunset. This is the beautiful time. I’m in a beer, and the beer’s in me. The sun is hot. The brick is warm. And I’m ready. Because this is it. This is the time, and this is the moment that you start. That you put one word down and follow it up with another, until you have created something that even that dead lady would envy. She’s looking down on you now, envying your aspirations as you stare at a clean screen. But it’s filled up with dreams! you scream at her. Sure it is asshole, she says back. Sure it is.

          Night sets. And you are drunk. Because you got into your cups, and your cups got into you. And you’re playing the spoons, because you’re celebrating what you’re GOING to do. What you’re inevitably MEANING to accomplish. What you’re decidedly unabashedly RARING to write. You can smell the masterpiece: its sweat, its stains, its moon rocks crumpled up in your milkshake until you’re sweating with extraterrestrial impulses. Here it is. Here it comes. The true words, the best ones you ever wrote. Yeah, here it is. Fuck yeah.

          But you’re in your bed. Not sure how you got here. But you’re in the dark. And you’re asleep. And you’re dreaming. What is that next to that star? Is it a flashing light? Is it a spaceship descending to deliver you your greatest sequence of words ever? It must be wrapped in ribbons and Christmas lights. There is no other possible way this could happen. That light is coming closer, my friend. It is haunting your dream. It is your dream. But for some reason, you won’t reach out for it. You won’t even start to reach out for it, even though you think about doing so all the time, while sitting at your fucking computer and reveling in a success you can’t even begin to taste.

          And the thought comes about tomorrow. The day that is going to be. For today is a lost cause, and yesterday was a wart. But tomorrow… well tomorrow, I am going to rule the world.

Plato on the semantics of Pluto.
Plato on the semantics of Pluto.
Dream hard, rage hard.

125 thoughts on “A Future Day in the Life of Powerblogger Trent P. Lewin

  1. You know, I keep wanting to write a post that lists the 2,371 reasons I can’t write much these days. That number used to be 12, then it was 83, then it just continued to grow and grow and grow. Some day that number of reasons will exceed the days of my life. But, you’ve pretty much hit the nail on the ahead … again … with this. “This is the moment, and these are the days …” Most definitely. Absolutely. I feel that way every single day and I end up right where you end this. There’s always tomorrow. Gotta stop waiting for tomorrow and thinking it will happen then. This is the moment.

    But about that snake…

    1. That snake’s got it coming, Mark. I’m going to fry it up and eat it. Fuck that beast.

      Get on it man. You are a wonderful writer, whatever your other self might be saying. Wonderful.

      1. I went back to something after I read this last night. After dinner tonight I’ll go back. It really, truly is time for me to stop the excuses and just get it done. As always, thank you for your encouragement and willingness to slay my dragons … Er, snakes.

          1. Do you have a business card? I may need your services in the near future. I’ll cover travel costs.

            As long as you have a beer with me before or after the aforesaid nutsnake slaying.

            1. Nutsnakeslayers don’t ever carry business cards. We let our ridiculously sharp knives do all the talking. Don’t worry, we’re very accurate. Especially after several beers.

  2. High ambitions – but the feeling of not going anywhere. But it’s not about rejection. So what is the resolution? I feel like this person isn’t limited – they just need to focus on hitting their target once and for all. Like the frantic feeling and fast pace. 🙂

    1. No, it’s not about rejection at all. If you’re okay with rejection I figure you just let things go… I prefer to rage about it, hence my tag line. Dream hard, rage hard. I think there’s an answer in that.

  3. Trying to convince yourself to start writing today, this hour, this minute, this second sounds like way too much pressure. Therefore, I personally resigned myself to promise to write something maybe next week.

      1. Well, I will then hold myself to an even higher standard and will start writing a post now. What I can’t commit to is an exact time when I’ll finish it, or if I’ll ever finish it.

  4. Trent, you are a writer. I love your wordplay on Plato and Pluto. Harper Lee wrote her “sequel” first, which technically makes “To Kill a Mockingbird” a prequel, although many would dispute that fact. I love how you referred to the next wannabe Lee. I must admit, if I saw a snake squeezing you down there, I really can’t say what I’d do.

    1. Yah, I stopped quite some time ago with the ridiculous nonsense that this is all just a hobby and that I’m not a real writer. I’m a writer. I love how that sounds…

      I heard that about H. Lee. Keep thinking back to Mark’s awesome post on the note he got from her… I am dreading reading the prequel. Heard a few things about it and just can’t stand the thought of besmirching my memory of Mockingbird… a perfect novel, in my opinion.

      As for the snake thing… I hear you.

      1. Yeah..I’m not sure I can read it, now. Maybe in time. ___My hidden weapon is a knife and.I have monocular vision without glasses. Anyone/thing is at risk…even snakes.

  5. Have you considered that you may only be able to do it when you’re not? That maybe the crack between your primary and peripheral vision where the story lingers, disappears when you look directly at it? Perhaps if you turn away from the keyboard the story will write itself? Much as the stories that that make New York City a romantic and magical place full of fairies and little people, so too is your story – unwriteable under the glare of the noon sun and the thanklessness of sobriety. The dirty streets with discarded wrappers blowing in the gutters overwhelm the ephemeral visions of what could be that flicker at the edges of your/its essence.

    So how about saying: “I’m not going to write, nothing can make me write” and see what you write when you’re not looking?

    Awesome post, as usual Trent. 😀

    1. Ah, you mean the Babe Ruth theory? That the best way to hit a homerun is to specifically not try to hit a homerun? Just put the bat on the ball right in the middle and hit it hard. If the spin on the ball and about a hundred other factors align, that ball is going to sail out of the park. Or hit you in the crotch, one or the other.

      Did you know that Babe Ruth spent entire seasons hitting more homeruns himself than entire teams in the league? He is the greatest overperformer in the history of sports. More than Gretzky or Jordan or Woods. He was immeasurably better than his peers, to the point where it wasn’t even close to a fair comparison. All while trying NOT to hit the homeruns he was hitting at a sick rate.

  6. I keep thinking of the Disney dog Pluto, the poor thing, being probed. That was a fantastic scree. We are all up-to-date on current events thanks to Trent Fucking Lewin.

    So this is all stream of consciousness or edited once or twice? Man, you’re the master. Tomorrow in reverse?! Where do you get it from? I can’t touch this stuff. Where’d you say you went to school?

    1. I aim to enlighten. Dan Akroyd is going to do a cameo in the new all-female Ghostbusters. Pete Rose made me cry with his appearance at the All-Star Game. I feel I have now done my job.

      Stream for sure. Twenty minutes at work before things started, it was savage. Read it once, spell checked, found photos, sent it to the ether. Too much fun really.

      I went to school in Canada. That’s right, Canada baby.

      1. I still have no love in my heart for Pete Rose. When I was a kid, one of the only good things the Cleveland Indians had going for them was catcher Ray Fosse. He was my favorite player. Charlie Asshole—I mean Hustle ended his career crashing into him. And it was a fucking All Star game! It didn’t even count! Yeah, fuck Pete Rose forever.

        1. Oh crap yeah, I remember that collision, and that it was in an All-Star Game. I remember commentators years later saying that this was the essence of Pete Rose – playing that hard in a meaningless game. They show that all the time. Rose got his 4000th hit for the Expos, which was a total treat for me, as that was my team. Still is, they just don’t, you know, exist.

          I saw Rose in Vegas signing books. He looks spent and evil. And I hate what he did. You can do anything you want in baseball and they will forgive. You can do steriods and they will forgive you! You can do any drug you wish! You can hit your wife! But you can’t gamble. And he did it while managing AND playing. He is, I think, scum. But if you watched the ASG highlights, when they announced him, he got a huge ovation and I think he teared up – for that one moment I just about all the hits he got and the sprinting to first base on walks… and I remembered why people loved him. Some still do. After that one moment, I went back to hating him. I don’t want him in the Hall of Fame. But I also don’t want Clemens or Bonds or McGwire or Sosa or Palmeiro or any of the other cheat in there either.

          1. I don’t think it’s the gambling. Well…not entirely. I think he’s so unloveable and has such a henious, off-putting personality that they don’t want him anywhere near that podium. The gambling is a red herring. Sort of.

            1. I dunno. Baseball does not tolerate gambling. 1919 was a bad bad year, and Judge Landis went all apeshit with the White Sox. You know that Joe Jackson was one of the finest players that ever played? Gone. Out. It’s amazing, baseball seems to have a thick institutional memory, and gamblers are the lowest of the low in that context.

              I know he wasn’t loveable. But I never, ever saw a player hustle so hard. Not even close.

            1. My bottom is full of power, I’ll have you know. I heard someone refer to themselves as a powerblogger the other day, not entirely sure I know what it means so I stole the term. Sounds severely douchey.

              1. I consider “power-bloggers” simply as those who do a lot of posts – for instance Opinionated Man (Jason) a year ago June published 654 posts in one 30 day period. This isn’t necessarily a term of endearment – in fact it got OM censored by WP and it annoyed many.

              2. Who is this Opinionated Man you speak of? Don’t think I’ve run across him. 654 posts in 30 days. The mind boggles. Henceforth, as a show of respect, I will continue to consider myself as a powerblogger. 4 posts in 3 months must qualify as a powerblogger, right????

              3. Absolutely you qualify Trent 😀 Opinionated Man http://aopinionatedman.com/ is a blog called Harsh Reality run by Jason Cushman out of Colorado. His mandate is to piss everyone off equally – ha! Not really but he doesn’t much care. He’s like a shotgun, every shot some pellets are going to hit something. Yeah, that’s probably the best way to put it – shotgun blogging. I find some of his stuff inspired and some is not to my liking. But I will defend his right to say his peace and he does.

              4. Don’t think I know him, but then I don’t get out much. I’m honestly not into reading multiple posts a day unless it’s Art posting them – I’m more about the ongoing connection and relationship. Shotgun blogging sounds, well, a bit odd to me, but to each their own. Nevertheless, Trent Lewin Powerblogger will give them all a run for their money!

  7. I felt my anxiety growing with each angst-filled sentence I read. I love your fiction, but I especially love these introspective pieces you share.

  8. Damn…you make my balls hurt and I don’t even have any!!! What a ride NB, and if this is what your brain does to you on a daily basis, get that motherfucker out on paper before your head explodes. You sure your book isn’t a compilation of these snippets of genius you share with us? Maybe not THE one but it would be one I’d invest in…ab.so.lute.ly makes me want to tune into Trent Fucking Lewin Theater every Saturday night to see where he takes me…it’s the twilight zone of your mind.

    1. Oh hell SB, there’s an image! Yeah, balls. This is my brain on coffee and last night’s bender. Thanks for taking a ride on crazy Trent train, I do try to entertain here and there… and I never know when I go off like this if it’ll work. Every word of this junk post makes sense to me… even when I’m sober. Yikes.

  9. *’the madness stuffed into our underpants that makes us hit a keyboard’ may be the best sentence ever created for and with the English language… how did Shakespeare miss that one… maybe they didn’t have keyboards… or underpants… back then…
    *Do warts actually have puss? Because those might not be warts at all…
    *That whole paragraph that starts with; ‘And I remember. I recall’… that is some powerful fucking shit… you made me swear, are you happy now…? That summed up every writer who ever picked up a pen or a keyboard or a bird feather to dip in an ink well… the feeling that we are great but how do we let everyone else know… the ideas that never go anywhere… the wasted time… waking up knowing that ‘the novel’ is inside us, and despite our best intentions, it will never leave us and come to life on blank pages… wait… why the fuck am I writing this here? This would be a kick ass post…
    *Fuck yeah! All that elephant/sand/river shit… you fucking rock! Nobody writes about writing and not writing and wanting to write and hating writing like you do…
    *Little greasy garter snake motherfuckers! If I had a blog and had started ‘the novel’ when I was still 17, back when I was killing brain cells with everything I could get my hands on just to slow my imagination down to the point where I could fucking see it… but no… I write now… when I can’t remember shit and my imagination is watered down molasses…
    *Okay, to be brutally honest, you lost me on the snake part… and the swans and the beaver… but I’m still going on with this… we are in this together, you and me, buddy…
    *Fuck yeah… drink… and drugs… that will get the creative juices flowing… until it doesn’t… and you read what you wrote the next day… or realize you never did write it…
    *Is ‘playing spoons’ a metaphor for something I am not smart enough to understand???
    *The mothership… because we have dreams of mastering the universe… the collectivity of all things… with fucking words… and then we self-publish something that we feel like was our soul vomited onto blank pages and maybe a hundred people… people who watch what you write every day and seem to like it… actually plop down real money to see these words, and you are appreciative and a little proud and say you are a writer… and the profits won’t buy one tank of fucking gas for your fucking car… and you wonder how come the world seems to value art but not enough to let many people make a living doing it… or maybe we just suck and our words are worth less than a tank of fucking gas is… because it is made from dead dinosaurs and our words are just sweat and time and fucking electrical impulses bouncing around in our fucking crack-squirrel infused craniums.
    Fuck you, Trent… why do you make me realize what a sham… a fake… I am>? I have the shriveled testicles to ask you to help me edit a novel… a novel I know full well sucks… I wrote it for NANOWRIMO whatthefuckever… cram a whole novel into one month… like that is a real fucking thing… and it isn’t too bad… but it would need a complete rewrite to make it good, and I just want to add one more fucking title to my self-published list of broken dreams so maybe some fucking literary agent will take me as a client and get my shit out there so they will make movies of them and I can be on talk shoes and meet celebrities… why? So I can take selfies with them and put them on my fucking blog… why do you fucking think I am doing all this?
    Seriously, it pisses me off how good this post was. Fuck you, Trent.

      1. The man is a master of many arts, Paul. A renaissance man, I think, but don’t tell him I said that. His ego may inflate, and as a result my meagre minion pay may deflate.

        I haven’t heard that song before – very much liked it. In return, I dare you not to be sucked into this song:

          1. That person singing that song is an absolute unequivocal genius, in my humble opinion. She is really really not right in the head, and makes awesome music.

    1. Holy fucking crow. I mean, shit. This is the finest comment I have ever received on my blog, and I have received many awesome comments. I love you man. Seriously. I’m not ashamed to say that and to fully out this bromance.

      You’re far from a fake dude, and you know it. As fucking irritating as it is to try and keep up with you, it’s always fun. And I hate it when you disapper from the blogging world for any amount of time, because the fun kind of dies.

      I’m going to help you edit that novel. I’m going to be harsh, because I am harsh about writing. I’m going to string it up and beat it with the garter snake, same one that came out of greasy underpants… I didn’t mean to say greasy underpants there but it’s done. There’s just no editing this shit. But I am going to edit the shit out of your book, trust me. So get ready to add this to your self-published list of broken dreams (I love that by the way). It won’t always be broken dreams man. I know that to be a fact and I’m like super smart. So fuck you. And fuck the rest too. And please write a post like this on your blog, because that would be crazy and that would be just like you.

      Awesome just awesome. Dead dinosaur level awesome comment.

      1. But will it get me on a talk shoe… with David Letterperson or that guy with the huge chin… wait… are they both gone now… isn’t Stephen Colbert (pronounced ‘coal bear’) getting a talk shoe? Can I be on that?

        1. I will get you on that goddam talk show/shoe post-haste. Colbert sounds french to me, and I’m right next door to Quebec so this should be no problem.

              1. I’m in there rummaging around right now… quite the odor in here, I must say.

                See that for respect? I spelled odor all American-like.

          1. yeah… the one woman you aren’t man enough to handle… and have too much respect for to ruin the only meaningful relationship with a woman you can carry on with… cad… bounder…

            1. Did you just call me a cad AND a bounder? Man, take a colonial back to the home country and expose him to the excellent slutty hotness of the Queen and he gets all British-ized. This just won’t do. Let me a grab a beverage, shaken not stirred bitches, and I’m gonna go get my Walter PK in order. Bring out the Aston Martin and get me a pack of fags!

              1. I’m Canadian, I don’t know nothing about guns! I think I used one once but it only shot water, and I even felt bad about that… you Americans… stop worrying about the Queen coming back to take over. Although I may ask her to do just that…love me some Queen… slobber slobber… all right, go read.

  10. Are you implying that our blank screens filled of dreams are somehow less worthy, less important, than the fruition of those dreams?
    Why do you want to be a writer? To be famous? To share your story with the world? To have an impact, make a difference, make someone else feel…? That all starts with our dreams. That all starts within us.
    Our dreams make us richer than we could ever be if those dreams ever came true.
    The quest for our dreams is the greatest adventure we will ever know.
    The longing, the hope, the passion and desire to find the words that give our dreams form and function, are the deepest emotions we will ever feel.
    Why would you want to end that? Why would you want to hit that peak and tumble over the other side into the unknown?
    Because once we are free of the shackles of our first dreams we will create larger ones, better ones, more beautiful ones to begin the quest again!

    1. You just asked a grand question and put forward a perfect answer. Yes, just so. Because of that. All I am is a rallying cry for myself. I build anthems that I myself need to listen to.

      I’ll raise a glass to dreams. But I’ll raise a full keg to chasing them.

    1. Hmmm… where did my comment go?? Well Michelle, I hope I don’t have a good understanding of your writing days. Because there’s only so many days and there is a lot of writing to be done, right?

  11. I still like Trenty. But Trent fucking Lewin works, of course!! Buckets of coffee…oh, that just made me laugh. I know you probably didn’t intend this, but I think this Trenty should be a character based on you. It was so entertaining. You know this guy that has all these adventures trying to write something really serious. And his life is so fucking hilarious that that’s the real story. Just what I was thinking. Still writing my fantasy….still dreaming that dream of mine, too. Yes!

      1. Could be based on you or not. Maybe just the premise of a writer trying to find the right story and what lengths he’ll go to do it. What? You’re not extreme. You don’t snakes down your pants? 🙂

      1. I never figured out how to do that. And seriously, when I was going to be a world class actress, I couldn’t figure out how to do it without being famous. I’d seriously HATE that.

        1. I hear you. I hate attention. I like being anonymous. I figure if I ever make it as a writer, I’ll hire someone to be my physical embodiment. Give him an earpiece so I could mumble in his ear now and then or something.

          Do you act at all anymore?

          1. No. Not in decades. I hope to go back to it, though, although with my health issues it wouldn’t be easy.

            It’s also hard when you have an unpredictable work schedule and then a kid and then and then and then…

            So I may just stick with writing. Or waiting to go on talk shows!

            1. And then and then and then is the message of this silly story of mine. Will send you a great big bucket of well wishes. Soaked in coffee, of course. Have a good one, Elyse.

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