Because I deserve those things.
The grrrrriiiind is in full swing here, oh yes. And why is Movable Type telling me that "a saved version of this entry was auto-saved 13 hours ago?" I just started it, right this minute. Hang on a sec, be right back.
No. I have not gone back in time, only forwards like the rest of you lot. Therefore I will attribute it to some software glitch, unlikely as that sounds.
The grind is not pleasant, nor is it productive. Ray Bradbury famously advised us to stay drunk on writing, so that reality could not destroy us, but dealing with the long-term legacy of staying drunk on other things does seem to get in the way of that. Or! Perhaps not. In any event, no dwelling on that here. Let us intone words in a sacred way, with fantastic haircuts:
Self doubt, my loves, self doubt. Sylvia Plath called it the worst enemy of creativity, and she would know, what with that whole oven thing and all.1
1And by the by, did you know that her son Nicholas Hughes also killed himself, just a few weeks ago? I mean, dig the horror, here: his poet father left his poet mother for another woman, and his mother gassed herself. Then the woman for whom his father left his mother, herself the wife of yet another poet, gasses herself and their daughter. Some four decades after that, Nicholas leaves an academic career as a marine biologist to set up a pottery workshop, but hangs himself instead. Thank god or something of a similarly elevated sensibility that I've no pretensions to poetry. Or pottery.
The grrrrriiiind is in full swing here, oh yes. And why is Movable Type telling me that "a saved version of this entry was auto-saved 13 hours ago?" I just started it, right this minute. Hang on a sec, be right back.
No. I have not gone back in time, only forwards like the rest of you lot. Therefore I will attribute it to some software glitch, unlikely as that sounds.
The grind is not pleasant, nor is it productive. Ray Bradbury famously advised us to stay drunk on writing, so that reality could not destroy us, but dealing with the long-term legacy of staying drunk on other things does seem to get in the way of that. Or! Perhaps not. In any event, no dwelling on that here. Let us intone words in a sacred way, with fantastic haircuts:
Yea, though the bottom has fallen out of my neurochemical soup tureen, I will indulge no whine: for dignity of some sort art with me; its rod and staff beat me about the head. It preparest a bowl of really smashing curry in the presence of pulchritudinous tatterdemalions, which is awesome because who even uses those words anymore: it annointest my head with Belgian ale, which is sticky and has too many calories. Surely fabulous tales and increasingly lucrative contracts shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in an excellent villa on Naxos forever. A-fucking-men.
Self doubt, my loves, self doubt. Sylvia Plath called it the worst enemy of creativity, and she would know, what with that whole oven thing and all.1
1And by the by, did you know that her son Nicholas Hughes also killed himself, just a few weeks ago? I mean, dig the horror, here: his poet father left his poet mother for another woman, and his mother gassed herself. Then the woman for whom his father left his mother, herself the wife of yet another poet, gasses herself and their daughter. Some four decades after that, Nicholas leaves an academic career as a marine biologist to set up a pottery workshop, but hangs himself instead. Thank god or something of a similarly elevated sensibility that I've no pretensions to poetry. Or pottery.
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