I'd hoped to have a story for SD #101 almost completed by now. I do not even have one started. I have a title. Ideas simply are not coming to me the way they once did, and, of course, most ideas are useless to me. That's always been the way of it. Out of every twenty-five ideas, I'm lucky if one can serve as the nucleus for a short story. So, I look back at this week that, aside from Kathryn's birthday, is essentially wasted time. I sat here at this desk, doing nothing whatsoever. The summer is almost one-third over, and I've done nothing with it. I finished "Interstate Love Song (Murder Ballad No. 8)" on the 13th, and I've done nothing of merit since.
I sleep six hours, maybe seven, each night. I spend my days sitting at this chair, and if I'm very lucky, I write something. My nights are squandered. And this is the routine, day after day after day.
There's so much work to do, and I am doing so little of it. There's so much opportunity to experience the world, but sometime back in 2011 or so, I just stopped caring, stopped trying. To quote Radiohead, "It wears me out."