I did 1,821 words yesterday. Nowhere very near my daily record, but none too shabby, either. I took a Klonopin and had a glass of absinthe (Kids, please don't try this at home. I'm a professional ne're-do-well.) and proceeded to write 1,821 words on something called "The Path of Silence." The words almost came with ease. Still, though it was meant to be one of the vignettes, there has so far been precious little in the way of sex. There have been two naked women standing in the snow. That's a start. I hope. Because I'm really too frelling busy to have to scrap this piece or set it aside and start over again. I can see where it's going, where I want it to go. The trick is enticing it in that direction. It may take me another 2,000 words. And to do it right, what I'm trying to do here, it may take more than talent and Klonopin and absinthe. I see it. I saw it so clearly yesterday. It was always a hundred words ahead of me, just like most other things.
I do not want to write today. With all my heart, I do not want to write today.
Ugh. That's enough for now. I'm going to fill the tub with ice cubes and cold water and then see how long I can lie in it without screaming.
Set me aflame and cast me free, Away, you wretched world of tethers...
Postscript (4:31 p.m.) — I've belatedly decided to disable comments for this entry. Please don't think this means that I'm not interested in what you have to say or that I don't appreciate the time you take to comment here. It just means that I'm not up to arguing today. It means nothing more than that, I promise.