I try to be patient, but where's the patience gone? I keep writing because I can't stop, like an IV I'm too weak to pull from my arm--let it drip its madness intravenously. I stumble; I just want to express myself. Before people I'm dull; I stutter; I have nothing to say--I envy their excitement and their energy. I can be friendly, but to me it feels like putting distance between us.
Is this more profound a blog post than one written in a meticulous academic style? It's hard to tell the truth, to tell the truth within the lie.
I started another novel. This is in it:
“ZigZig told me about other worlds. One’s in there,” Denny says in Harlan’s only produced film outside of the porn industry.
Denny’s father: “In where?”
“There,” Denny says, pointing at the TV screen jagged with snow, his face soft with wonder.
“What’s it like in there?”
“Lightning and fire.” A whisper: “Lightning and fire.”
And that's it, isn't it? That sums it up. That's what we're all looking for. Lightning and Fire.
Okay, that was a nice little break, but the little slave driver in my head (who wears classical masks of drama, carries a three-pronged whip, and smells of BO and sausage--don't ask me why) is telling me to get back to work. What is this nonsense? Quit messing around. Write your damn novel, you fool!