Do you ever just stare and stare and stare at a blank page and will the words to come? I’ve been doing that for two days and it’s not coming. So it’s time to just suffer through it and get back to what I do best (I mean aside from napping and reading books).
It’s funny because just a few weeks ago I was espousing on Twitter (from my work account) how I don’t believe in writer’s block. Then, because I am hypocritical I’ve been claiming (at least to myself) about how I’m all “blocked.”
So much bullshit. When I claim to have writer’s block, it’s not a block so much as a dissatisfaction with everything that comes out of my fingers. It’s not writer’s block so much as it’s writer’s-inability-to-tell-inner-editor-to-shut-the-fuck-up. Sometimes I forget that perfection is not the goal, putting down words is the goal.
Here the words are down. I’ve got many to write before I sleep, many to write before I sleep.
P.S. Also I have to put it here before I forget, I figured out why I love Mary Gaitskill so much (it has to do with sexuality and intellect) and that while I might be late to the party I am really digging on Malcolm Gladwell.