Par for the Course

Losing steam? Phlipping and phlopping in your seat?

Sounds like you're right where you're supposed to be.

This internal struggle, the plot and character pieces slowly being revealed... I think it's all part of the game. The winners are those who stay with it long enough to be there when they finally make sense.

This doesn't make it any less painful, and it doesn't mean we should be expected to stop bitching about it... but I do think there is enough sense among us that we at least know to continue to ride it out.

My trashcans are at the end of my driveway right now. Dear God I hope they're empty by now... I haven't looked outside yet. We had a freezer catastrophe with the fridge in the garage and lost about a hundred dollars worth of meat... mostly chicken... lots and lots of chicken that had gone on sale at Publix a few months back. And some fish.... Figured out the freezer wasn't freezing after more than a week... then double-bagged the already nasty meat and put it in the trashcans almost a week ago. They've been simmering while trash day slowly took its time to arrive. Simmering... the ultimate slow-cooking crockpot. Even double-bagged and stuffed into the trashcans with the lids closed, the sharp sweet smell of decaying chicken meat has floated around the yard, seeped into the cars, wafted I'm sure into the neighbors' houses.

I thought about making a run to the dump, but then I would have had to get close to the trashcans, even lift them up.

All this reminds me of that scene from The Cook, The Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover (I think I have that right...), where the lovers escaped, naked, in a trash truck full of decaying meat. Not sure what significance this has on anything, or why I even brought up the whole thing about the trashcans... It's just so wonderfully disturbing.

I have every intention of continuing to bitch about writing... I think sharing our thoughts with each other will help us dig ourselves out of desperate moments. But I can't stop thinking of the real work horses, like Stephen King, perhaps, who would lift his eyes up from his computer screen, stare at us over his glasses just long enough to figure out our concern, then he'd call us pussies and tell us to sit the fuck back down and keep writing. Then he'd turn back to his screen and keep clacking away. I bet he's got one of those keyboards that make nice high-pitched clackety-clacks, rather than the career-ruining ones with the dull, non-creative thuds... :-)