a new internet mag debuts this week: the gadflyer. progressives kicking ass without sounding lame and pretentious. (though i've never had a problem with the whole 'snob' label, myself.) already it's a fave. check it out.
oh, god, this week. so long. so lengthy. so interminable. so unending. so bleahhh. not even a pile of comic books could revive my ennui. yes, i've turned to comics, those crinkly leaves leftover from adolescence. no, they aren't preserved in plastic or arranged chronologically on a special shelf all their own. they're jumbled next to the latest phil rickman, trashy romance novel, victorian erotica and stanley elkin on my night table. that table is a symbol of my brain.
the elkin is taking some time to wade through - it's fun, but it's a hard-won fun. it's like the fun of drinking a bottle of whiskey on an empty stomach and then eating warm sushi. the drunken reeling is thrilling at first, but then the wet gurgle starts and, well, you know the rest.
life coach update:
i can't meditate for more than 5 minutes without falling asleep on the toilet.
another discovery - i'm too hung up on page count (thanks, grad school) and should really throw that over and just achieve getting some good words on the page. even if it's just five. it seems when i started treating writing like a job, i wanted to control it, instead of just letting it strike; i've been trying to apply the model from grad school and it doesn't fit my current schedule or temperament anymore, and so i've been stuck. and since i don't like my real life feeling like work, i'm avoiding writing because i've turned it into work.
thank god this is all free.
the coach said to me, "What's more important: writing or being a writer?"
and i didn't really have an answer to that.