When I stop and press the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, I see circles, which resolve themselves into a circular tunnel, which is very deep, and there's a staticky purple octopus pulsing and waving to me at the end. I'm just reporting here, folks, I'm not making anything up. I've been staring at the screen all day. Well, not all day, I also went grocery shopping and to my shrink, and there was that half hour where I was napping at my desk at the writer's room, dozing with my head on my coat, my cheek smooshed against a button. I kept trying to make sure I didn't fall asleep enough to drool; I was trying to maintain a socially acceptable state of somnolence. I'm not sure I maintained social acceptability when I stumbled out of my cubicle with the impression of a button on my face.
It's the goddamn white noise machines. They sap the life out of you. And the Bit O' Honeys they keep in a bowl in the kitchen. I eat six of them, and I'm in a sugar coma. I might as well just suck honey straight from a plastic bear.
I'm working on a story for a Major Media Outlet, to replace the original story I sent them, which was deemed "too sexually explicit." Ouch! I mean, hooray! I'm a totally vanilla middle-class monogamous anti-porn feminist, and I'm still too dirty for the world! I love it when this happens. There was the time Prestigious Literary Journal turned down a sestina called "How do married people masturbate?" for being "too rough." And I thought, Whatever. You fucking pussies.
I'm also working on my proposal for The Incredible True Love Story of Janice and Sam, which continues to suck and go nowhere -- both the proposal and the real-life story.
"Well, it's got to be a hard book to write," say my wonderful, supportive, exceptionally keen writer's group. "Especially while you're still living it."
Yeah, that's definitely crossed my mind every single second of the day.
(Moan, bitch, whinge.)
And then I sit down to post something and wind up writing and deleting, writing and deleting. That post's boring. It's too much like the other one. That's too cutesy. Either discuss the news or don't discuss the news but stop talking about how you should discuss the news and not doing it.
Everything I can think of to say is inane. I have poster's block. Or I have "the human condition." One or the other.
Maybe I'll go check my email for the seventy billionth time.