Saturday, June 21, 2003
I sat here until 5 p.m. yesterday, and the words never came. Today I'm going to print out the entire novel and read it all aloud from the first page, and see if I can't discover what's gone wrong.
A writer who is not writing is nothing. Unless - A writer who is not writing is momentarily free.
Of course, nothingness may equal freedom, and so both statements may be true.
I feel dissolute. Almost completely so. Thin. If I stood at the right angle, if I should accidentally determine that angle, I'm sure light would pass straight through me.
I don't hear the printer. Please send help.
|
|
