Today is a brilliant day, in that summer has taken a break (hopefully not to return until next year) and it is cool as the best day of Autumn, but it is not so good in that I have hit upon a wall of sorts in terms of writing. Not quite sure what to do at the moment, the possibilities (diversions included) being almost endless, I still find myself feeling that I should sit through this turbulence because the words will come. I think perhaps it is because this little work I am doing is a rather predictable number, and I am rushing through to the punchline rather than letting any atmosphere build up.
Added to that, I got a case of the blues, when I was directed (indirectly) to the journals of Sylvia Plath, and for additional disillusionment, I plucked from shelves The Book of Disquiet (Pessoa)- which was recommended to me by my good friend S.S.
Not to worry, I'm just writing a bunch of words here, blowing off steam, and soon it'll be back to the old drawing (writing) board for me.
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| Abstracted view of my studio |
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