I realize I have been using this online journal as a kind of dumptruck, to steal from Dylan, to unload my head. It gets all the stray buzzing thoughts out before I sit down to write. Bizarre things: like noticing there's one bird whose call sounds like "chee'burgie, chee'burgie" like that old skit on Saturday Night Live; or trying to decide whether this guy is brilliant or crazy or just needs to get out of Iowa City (thanks, Gene); or wondering where the squirrel's body went--did it wash away down the gully with the rain, or -- as Robert would no doubt suggest -- did someone take it home for dinner?
Inquiring minds and all that.
I think today will be a non-fiction writing day, 1) because I have a due date and 2) because I feel fairly bereft of ideas at the moment. Sometimes it's worth just toughing it out, staring at the same page until, grudgingly, the words start to come as if they slept late and don't want to come to work (cue Humpty Dumpty and his portmanteaux). And other days, you just do something else.
I do need to do laundry...
1 comment:
For fun, go read the catty reviews of the year's worst in the New York Times (meow, Charles Isherwood!), then go read about the best shows that won't be getting Tonys because they're off-Broadway. Nonetheless, I do hope Spam-A-Lot wins tons!
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