My head’s full of fragments of things I think about writing, but it’s just fragments, and nothing more. I can’t find my writing space, let alone decent inspiration. I’m obviously not finding the right experiences, and it’s experiences that feed my sort of writing.
I suppose I don’t have the imagination to just make stuff up. I have to make love to the right woman, or see the right tableau in the right bar, or a thousand other things that I, apparently, can’t find. I have to figure out what I’m not doing, and start doing it. I have to fight like Goddamn fucking Hell to get my life straight again. I’m twenty-eight, and I’m smart, I have no good excuse for this undeath in which I’ve been drowning.3 comments
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