Having one of my seemingly bi-annual meltdowns in which my brain keeps rambling, at an increasingly frantic pace, variations of "You need to write more. Why does your writing suck so much? Do you have any idea how mediocre you are. You need to write more. You need a proper portfolio. You never do things except for assignments, or half-baked flashfic pieces. You are going to be a receptionist for the rest of your natural existence. Have I mentioned that you need to write more?"
So, in this fit of wide-eyed horror at a life of banality and mediocrity, I yet again manage to spend a day procrastinating instead of actually writing something. The challenge piece is due on Friday and I have yet to put proverbial pen to paper. Ah, what tangled webs we weave.
Still, I'm sure it can be done. I just hate every sentence I write, I glare at every word as if it is a personal affront. Surely I am better than this? I could have sworn there was a time I was better than this. Insert appropriate obscenity here.
Mum emailed me this quote today -
Writing is a solitary occupation. Family, friends, and society are the natural enemies of the writer. He must be alone, uninterrupted, and slightly savage if he is to sustain and complete an undertaking.
Perhaps she is trying to tell me something.
Meanwhile I feel like crap and still can't decide whether it is hayfever or an actual cold or such. Fail. I probably do not help my chances by liberating a glass of Tempranillo from the kitchen, but c'est la guerre.
Ah well. Back to the drawing board.
It's the colorless picture
In a heart shaped frame
The silhouette of a dough eyed girl
Who at one point had a name
Let's break the window panes
And separate the walls from all the nails
Cause maybe if we're loud we'll stay alive
While everybody wants to join the fight
But now it's too late
Brush away all the memories
Keep the cries curbside
I'll be ashing on the images
That have all been caught inside
But I couldn't put it down
No I couldn't put it down
Music: Common reactor - Silversun Pickups