So?

Ah shit. I started a blog with the word "so." So it has begun. So, the decline. So, Lord shed thy grace on me. So, now what?

Writer's Block

I’m having a severe case of blog block. I have not been able to write anything. At all. Ever since I dropped the Remeron and dropped 7 pounds, my mind has been obsessing over a few choice thoughts and I cannot think of anything else but: how do I get Milan to eat? How do I get Milan to sleep? How to I keep him from coming out of his bedroom 50 times at night? Should I have more coffee? Should I take another K.? Should I go back on Remeron, even though I’m so happy to see cheekbones for the first time in two year? Ugh. This is frustrating. I have read enough self help books to know that we humans think about 15 thoughts every day and I definitely can tell what my 15 are, and they are not original. Damn brain. Damn writer’s block.

What's-Her-Face?

Another author published a book about in which she writes about you know, what's her face, doing the same thing as you know, what's her face. After she woke up her eyes looked almost puffy yet saggy like what's her face's.

A sad state of affairs, the publishing world.

Note from the author: what's her face is NOT SJP, just a writerly convention of weak scribes who "write like they talk, you know."

Sans Mots

Time Flies like a Banana

I write in a rush, with the furies riding in the crook of my neck, because any moment there will be a small pitter patter and a cry for milk. So I cannot censor and craft and edit and shape. Everthing must fall from my fingertips like ripe fruit. If they are not ready, they shall continue hanging, In the meantime, thoughts tumble and drop and rot on the ground. Ah, these toddler years are precious.

Psycho House!

Novel Aborted Part XVII: Yet another attempt to write "a novel" (not THE novel) has failed in its bud. They move into a rented house on a sunny day. The journalist in me goes crazy: What kind of house? A Craftsmen. Are Craftsmen two stories? Can they be? Or is it California bungalows that only have one story? Can it be Victorian? How likely is that? There are hardly any Victorians in LA, or are there? And I want it to be painted brown. And I want there to be an extra shutter, a fake shutter, with no window behind it. But do Victorians even have shutters? Do Craftsmen? Fuck it, I give up on page one.

Gandhi's Pen

I love fountain pens. And I've always wanted a Montblanc Pen. They've always been too expensive and I forget to request one for my birthday. Now, for the 140th anniversary of the birth of Mahatma Gandhi, Montblanc has released the Mahatma Gandhi Limited Edition 241 pen, which is 18K gold and shows Gandhi on the salt march of July 1930. It costs $23,000. That puts things in perspective again. A lot of things actually.

1. consumering is disgusting and Gandhi would be horrified
2. my wanting of things is the symptom of emptiness
3. if I had that pen I could finish a Pulitzer winning novel

Gandhi himself wrote with pencils, wearing them down to a stub to illustrate that everything should be used to its fullest extent.

The Write Thing

I just looked at the blog of a friend who's a writer. A real writer. She's so good. I feel jealous. I'm just a writer in my mind. I used to need to write to live. Now all I need is coffee, naps and my head examined once a week.