I read a discussion yesterday between writers –comic book writers, no less –about “the myth of writer’s block.”
“Lazy writers use the Block as a way out a tool that allows them to avoid putting in long hours expending brain muscle,” said one author brashly.
“Grrr,” I said. “I ought to write this guy and tell him that he… needs to… take his… uhhhh.”
My wife and I moved into our new house almost two weeks ago, and the feeling of home ownership has been indescribable so far. I feel as though we have lived there for decades while also feeling as though I do not live there now. Every box is empty, flattened and tossed; with the exception of two books, I know where all of my stuff is; right before bed, I look up from my reading and say, “Ahhhhhhhh, this is the life…. wait, where the hell am I?” This happens every night.
And those two missing books are driving me mad. I will soon take a pickaxe to the drywall. They’re in here somewhere.