Chekhov's Mistress
My Eyelids Stepped in Bubblegum
It is inevitable that sooner or later the steam-pipe running from the writing portion of the brain to the keyboard appended to my fingers gets clogged up like a bad artery (can’t you tell by this sentence). The solution is to eat fish, lay off the booze, or drink more, depending upon which nostrum you subscribe, and let yourself not write.
But here it is, the one place in the world that I feel I have to write so that my reader in Katmandu will want to keep coming back. Anxiety sets in and all of those story ideas lingering around my head drift ever farther. Funny how this blogging thing gets into your system.
But alas, all my little insider titles for posts, like when “Evelyn Waugh married George Eliot” and “Ignacio Padilla, author of the Aleph,” are nothing more than concepts.
I can’t even seem to focus on reading anything beyond the stray article this week. Everything on my stack seems to be inappropriately heavy and gives me reading narcolepsy.
I’m tapped for the moment because I’ve put all my energy into other things. Tomorrow we are going to Virginia for a wedding and won’t return until Monday night. Perhaps after a few days without my Mac I will come back better than before. So now I will have a double espresso and a beer and see if that works, but if it doesn’t, please come back on Tuesday.
Read widely, think well, and write often.
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About this Post
- Posted by: Bud Parr
- Date: September 16, 2004
- Filed Under:
Song of Myself: Diary
- Comments:0
- Links to this Post: Technorati
