I feel like such a writer today!
Because I don’t have any urge to write. That is, now that the Damn France Book is done (all over except for the Fat Lady’s song) I have no desire to sit down and write another word.
I just spent three years hacking away at the English language, picking at it with my dull blunt instrument clutched in my hammy fists, desecrating and skewering the life out of every half-decent thought that crossed my mind, stabbing at it until it gave up trying to be Perfection glowing like the light of a thousand suns, and settled for being a muddy blob of As Close As I Can Get.
I like everything about writing except for the actual act of writing. Which, if you’re following closely, means that I really don’t like much at all about writing. It’s too hard! It takes so long! It gets put in a book that Borders mis-shelves in Self-Help!
(I’m depressed about not having a hot new writing project at the moment, and I best express sadness by having a temper tantrum. )
(That’s another one of my vintage LP album covers. )
I’m going to try to get two or three or — gasp! — four good nights of sleep in a row, try to think good thoughts about a Hot New Writing Project.
O Wise Owl of the Jewelry Box, give me a word. And then give me about 44,999 more (just a short book next time).
(These are the keepers. The one on the far left reminds me of a nutty tortoishell cat I once had, a cat so homely I called her The Lemur Baby. I adored that damn cat.)