Over Coffee (27)

If we were having coffee it’d be in a home environment, I’m not feeling 100% up to having to human today. Can’t really handle the people around in a cafe. I’m drinking plain black coffee, no fuss today. I found out that I’m about to finish my job, which is a bummer. I quite like my job.

I’d tell you about the writing that I haven’t been doing, but that I have in store. I’m sort of just about over the writer’s block, but it’s still difficult to get the words past my fingertips. So far I’ve had the same Word document open for three days and taught myself how to make a PDF, but that’s about the extent of things.

How has your week gone?

All Blocked Out

Update on the writer’s block, I guess. So far I’ve managed to chip at a new story, but it’s only about 20% of the overall length I have in mind for it. I think I once wanted to be able to turn off my mind, and I’ve done that very well. I just can’t find the on switch again.

On the bright side, it now looks like the writer’s block is a ladder with 209 rungs instead of 217. I visualize it as an obstacle to climb, but also I need to stop and take breaks because otherwise I might climb too high and get dizzy. Or something.

I also learned today that my job contract is coming to an end – it’s a temporary contract, but I wasn’t expecting it quite so soon. Makes the next couple of months a bit more open-ended. More of a mystery.

Letters to Euturpe: 36

Hello hello. It’s been a bit of a long week and I kept thinking today was Friday. Note: it is not. The Friday is a lie.

My plans have grown wings and created other plans, and also there is now a Spreadsheet involved. It’s all getting very detailed which is either the sign I’m suddenly becoming more organized, or a sign of procrastination. I can’t decide which it is.

Okay, cupcakes. New poetry challenge for the week – did I tell you I’m overhauling Letters a bit, and making it into a sole poetry challenge? – is from a simply-pretty song entitled Please Don’t Leave Quite Yet, by Adam Agin:

Underneath my bed there’s a raincoat
Packed with scarves and books

boredom (150)

the heart rate slows, oxygen and blood slower around the body. there’s calm and calm precedes the onset of boredom. the mind is next to slow, lack of stimuli whirling down to a whittled spiral.

and the artist sits at her easel, brushes in hand and a row of paint tubes lined up before her. the palette sits looped over her thumb and a dozen time she goes for a tube, places it back before ever opening it. there’s nothing to think today, nothing to do because her hands and brain aren’t talking to each other.

(or maybe they are, but the conversation is stilted, broken, and she’s already had five changes of scenery so can’t complain about the scenery being dull)

she’s bored of her work, she decides. tucks away the brushes, seals up the paint tubes for another day, and pours another coffee.

A Quick Realization

So the other day I was muttering about maybe taking a writing break because I’m as inspired as a bag of dry lettuce… turns out, I don’t think that is humanly possible. Somehow I’ve hardwired into my code to blog daily, come hell or high water.

Must’ve overwritten any maths ability I had to speak of… oops.

I’ve also begun to create a spreadsheet for secret things, and have counted seven completed pieces of fiction on my computer desktop. New goal in life: have the screen covered with completed fiction. I just need to break through the block. Actually, when I think about it, I’m maybe slightly closer than I thought – tonight I could begin mapping out the origins of stories number eight and nine. On paper, but still something.

Also, I think since this writer’s block is here to stay I will make use of it. Dance, writer-block monkey.