As is often the way when you're on a creative roll the static becomes defeaning. Where, only a few scant weeks ago you were screaming for the next idea to come from anywhere, it didn't even have to be a particularly good idea, just something to work with.
Pah, those arid days seem long ago, just as the complacent slimmer looks at a photograph of his earlier fat self (most likely clad in a bright shirt and wearing the sort of smile that only fat holidaying goons can muster) and tuts indulgently so I regard my inspiration-free alter ego of not so long ago with a particularly smug and annoying brand of pity.
But where was I? oh yes, static. There are now that many ideas churning around that I am forced to regard some with suspicion and the old stern eye. I must learn not to get wildly excited when yet another thought pops into my rapidly overheating head, I must learn to fix it with a clear and steady gaze and inquire whether it is a bona fide idea or an imposter, likely to turn into one of the approximately five thousand half-written short stories and stubs of poems which clutter up my hard drive and journals (and which I can never bring myself to delete, oh for the iron will of a Bunting).
For the record, actual ideas currently in production include a (long) poem and one (shorter) one, both of which conform to methods I won't bother going into here. I am also editing the novel (again, I know) and hope to have knocked it into some sort of publishable shape within a year or so. There should also be an essay (after Orwell) on British food up on the Publog sometime soonish.
Pah, those arid days seem long ago, just as the complacent slimmer looks at a photograph of his earlier fat self (most likely clad in a bright shirt and wearing the sort of smile that only fat holidaying goons can muster) and tuts indulgently so I regard my inspiration-free alter ego of not so long ago with a particularly smug and annoying brand of pity.
But where was I? oh yes, static. There are now that many ideas churning around that I am forced to regard some with suspicion and the old stern eye. I must learn not to get wildly excited when yet another thought pops into my rapidly overheating head, I must learn to fix it with a clear and steady gaze and inquire whether it is a bona fide idea or an imposter, likely to turn into one of the approximately five thousand half-written short stories and stubs of poems which clutter up my hard drive and journals (and which I can never bring myself to delete, oh for the iron will of a Bunting).
For the record, actual ideas currently in production include a (long) poem and one (shorter) one, both of which conform to methods I won't bother going into here. I am also editing the novel (again, I know) and hope to have knocked it into some sort of publishable shape within a year or so. There should also be an essay (after Orwell) on British food up on the Publog sometime soonish.
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