Where's the boy with the chemicals?

[sovay]

Here we have the obligatory writer's sulk.

I went to bed early, because I'm several days underslept, overdosed on human company, and slightly feverish; and I'm still awake, because my brain is stalled out. I have a photograph that my father asked me to write about, a quotation from H.D., and a quotation from T.S. Eliot. I can feel how they all fit together. (The working title is "The Salt House.") I've got no words. So I'm set to "creative," but there's nothing there: this is very frustrating.

It smells like burning tires outside. There are periodic male shouts and high-pitched female laughter. I can only hope this means the fraternities across the street are engaged in some sort of exciting sacrificial ritual that will thin their numbers and leave fewer impediments to my sleep on the weekends, but I rather doubt it.

Alas.

Comments

[tamaranth.livejournal.com]

I know what you mean about the well being empty. When I feel like this, I free-associate, or write word-lists, or thousand-word run-on sentences .... Sometimes new ideas come out of hiding (memorably, the short story that emerged last winter when I went round the house testing every pen by writing a single sentence with it). Sometimes, it's just nice when you stop!