OMT: A Mojo-Free Zone

Here at OMT, perhaps one of the most disquieting aspects of our dubious foray into journalism is that the trees of our muse seem to bear fruit only in waves; we go through long stretches when the words flow easily, followed by periods like the one we’re in now, in which everything we start turns into shit with an astounding rapidity.

And it’s certainly not due to lack of interesting material. There are countless current topics that are fairly screaming for the OMT treatment, and we have attempted to address them, but alas, our mojo has gone on vacation, to the Caribbean probably, leaving us to prattle around the OMT offices, laboring in vain to produce something even remotely readable (“trees of our muse” … mother of babbling Jesus …)

One positive aspect of all of this is that we’ve gone back to reading the “old masters” for inspiration; Thurber, White, Hunter Thompson, John O’Hara, Erskine Caldwell, Gurney Norman … studying their rhythms, mostly … since we’ve taken up OMT, we have been reading less, and it’s time we shut up for a while and soaked up some energy from without.

In the meantime, we’ll continue to plug away. Someday the pieces will come together and we’ll be back in fine form again, but for now we’re going to be working off line, honing our craft, working toward the day when our prodigal mojo comes back to us, as it always does, like those Capistrano swallows.

Christ … We better quit while we’re ahead …

Not to worry. We won’t be gone too long.