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kittydesadeThat's what I keep telling myself, anyway.
Ugh. I'm exhausted, I haven't gotten half the writing done I wanted to today, and the only thing building up the Excel rolodex of magazines has been good for is crushing all my aspirations to actually write or submit a damn thing. Maybe the bf's right, maybe I do need to take a nap.
Last night was hellish. Went to bed at 2. Woke up at 4:45, at 8, at 10, and then finally got out of bed at 11. And had nightmares about people trying to kill me all the way through. I don't know if I have more vivid nightmares more often than the average person, or if it's just something to do with writing and reading a lot. There was some scientific study a while ago that corrolated the two, I think.
Why this sudden lack of motivation? I vacillate between perching on top of the world and sinking to the lowest depths, or at least so they seem at the time. Yesterday I was forcing myself to be gung ho, to go out and write and prepare to send off anything and everything. Today I can't find a single one of my pieces that I think worthy to show anyone. And I find myself wanting to emulate that kind of speech, that high speech that I maintain is still the worst kind of masturbatory elocution known to man. Why I want to emulate it, though; because it seems to be what people want.
I know what it is, really. It's holding myself up to others and finding myself falling short. It's watching the continual discussion of proofs and galleys, covers and copy, and standing there with my nose pressed to the glass of that elite club I'll never be able to join. It's hell, is what it is. Sartre spoke very true, l'enfer, c'est les autres. Maybe I should take my grandfather up on that idea, hide away in the family cabin when spring comes and just write down everything.
I had some good ideas today, I know I did. The bf dragged me out to apply for a job that turned out not even to be available, and we passed some giant hill. Ordinarily, I think, a person would go Wow, that's a big hill. Me, I go I wonder what they buried under there. Refuse? Some giant king's grave. Hah. My mind is a strange and twisted place.
You're so wonderful, apple of everyone's eye
You're so clever
Multimillion dollar smile
I think I need to go back to sleep.
Ugh. I'm exhausted, I haven't gotten half the writing done I wanted to today, and the only thing building up the Excel rolodex of magazines has been good for is crushing all my aspirations to actually write or submit a damn thing. Maybe the bf's right, maybe I do need to take a nap.
Last night was hellish. Went to bed at 2. Woke up at 4:45, at 8, at 10, and then finally got out of bed at 11. And had nightmares about people trying to kill me all the way through. I don't know if I have more vivid nightmares more often than the average person, or if it's just something to do with writing and reading a lot. There was some scientific study a while ago that corrolated the two, I think.
Why this sudden lack of motivation? I vacillate between perching on top of the world and sinking to the lowest depths, or at least so they seem at the time. Yesterday I was forcing myself to be gung ho, to go out and write and prepare to send off anything and everything. Today I can't find a single one of my pieces that I think worthy to show anyone. And I find myself wanting to emulate that kind of speech, that high speech that I maintain is still the worst kind of masturbatory elocution known to man. Why I want to emulate it, though; because it seems to be what people want.
I know what it is, really. It's holding myself up to others and finding myself falling short. It's watching the continual discussion of proofs and galleys, covers and copy, and standing there with my nose pressed to the glass of that elite club I'll never be able to join. It's hell, is what it is. Sartre spoke very true, l'enfer, c'est les autres. Maybe I should take my grandfather up on that idea, hide away in the family cabin when spring comes and just write down everything.
I had some good ideas today, I know I did. The bf dragged me out to apply for a job that turned out not even to be available, and we passed some giant hill. Ordinarily, I think, a person would go Wow, that's a big hill. Me, I go I wonder what they buried under there. Refuse? Some giant king's grave. Hah. My mind is a strange and twisted place.
You're so wonderful, apple of everyone's eye
You're so clever
Multimillion dollar smile
I think I need to go back to sleep.
