greygirlbeast (greygirlbeast) wrote,
greygirlbeast
greygirlbeast

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please wake me up in my dreams

This evening, the New Exhibitionism afforded by Blogger and LiveJournal is a sweet-tongued demon whispering in my left ear. I could, you see, talk about all these things that really matter, the things that have made the last twenty-four hours a sparkling, shiny, incoherent hell, and I could do it right here. And all those people I do not know, or who I know only in passing, could gaze in voyeuristic whatever at my...what would robyn_ma say? My ennui? Yes, my ennui. I'd get my fix. They'd get theirs. We would all be mutually sated.

But I went out to Borders a couple of hours ago, despite the heat and sunshine, and bought a new journal (I finished up the old one on May 27th), so, thankfully, this won't be necessary. Yes, I see the attraction in public confession, but I have my latest little black book of blank pages, thank you, Mr. Blog and Mr. L. J., and I've already coughed up most of the messy clots into the narrow space between its covers.

Maybe next time, though. Maybe someday, when I finally forget myself entirely.

After Borders, Spooky and I had lunch at Whole Foods. I adore their salad bar, and they even have decent sushi, but I shouldn't have tried the turkey sandwich. Bland, dry, and, thanks to some flavourless, gratuitous carrot shreddings, crunchy. After two bites, I noticed that the damned thing had cost me almost six bucks. This is a mistake we shall not repeat, no, no, no. I ate only half the thing, my appetite quickly waning. On the way home, I saw a man in Candler Park with a will-work-for-food sign and almost told Spooky to pull over and let me give him the rest of the sandwich, but then I thought, What has he ever done to me?

A couple of days ago, Bill Schafer called about "Alabaster" and, while we were talking, he said how my blog gave him the impression that I was dangerously close to burning out. I agreed that I am, that I have been for the last two years, but pointed out that there's damn little I can do about it. The next novel has to be written, and it has to be written in the next ten months or so, because a) a deal has been made, b) I now have a deadline, and c) creditors and landlords are less than understanding about protecting one's art from exhaustion. I can't imagine writing another frelling word, not for another six months, or even another year. But I have to begin Daughter of Hounds soon, write at least one short story this summer, and write a novella this fall, regardless. This is what I do, and there's nothing -- nothing at all -- that I could do in its stead. Sherezade, remember? Good. That means you're paying attention.

I wish that it would rain.
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