I opened this and then left it here for several hours days.
Nothing creative happened. No spark. No divine inspiration. All I felt was a
little tired and with a backache. Writing
is hard.
I've mostly stuck to paper lately, but even then, even there, the words come out gutted and
crippled, dragging on until I end up drifting away somewhere. Anywhere.
Preferably not here-and-now, but there-and-then. If the past and the future
move fast enough, the illusion of some sort of present is created. The faster
you go, the more things you do, the more you get to live suspended in this
illusory now.
I've decided to force myself to write, even if I don’t have
anything to say. Especially if I don’t
have anything to say. This void takes up more of my mind than I’d like to
admit, and if the room is especially dark and quiet, I can hear my own
bloodstream sloshing about in my ears. [So much for a great inner voice.]
In a week I’m supposed to start writing a novel and finish
it in one month. This task was easier when I was still living in Vienna. The tiny,
solitary-confinement-type room at the second floor of an all-girls dorm was the
ideal recluse. This year I’m living it up in a noisy house with activity and
laughter. That’s the last thing I need when I write. Contentment. Ugh.
.Time to fall asleep watching American Horror Story.
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| Saw the boots. |
 |
Bought the boots.
|
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| Made forest tea and pumpkin pasta. |
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