{December 27, 2008}   Sunspots

There was a time when I thought I could really make it as a fiction writer, but my brain doesn’t work that way. I can string a sentence together, sure; sometimes even more than one. But eventually I run low on imagination juice and grind to a mind-shattering halt. Silly people call this “writer’s block”, like some nodes in your brain-box got all clogged up with thoughtgunk, the grey matter equivalent of mucus or ear wax. Nah. It’s the ritual that beats me down, something I suspect only professional writers can truly ever understand. That whole getting up and forcing it, page after page, chapter after chapter, day after day just isn’t in me. If muses are fickle then mine’s a fuckin’ china plate balanced precariously on the tip of a rhinocerous’ horn. I’ve got a few seconds at best before the idea’s smashed to pieces and discarded with all the other trashy thoughts that flicker through my mind.

I’m fine with that, though.


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