1:21 a.m. - 2002-08-06
Writer's block
Wouldn't it be fun to be a writer? I mean, you get to (preferably) sit at home, drink coffee or tea, maybe even hang around in your pyjames and just write about crap. Anything you want...and get paid for it. Tell me, how great would that be?
I would love it, myself. To be a writer...it's just that I have a couple of problems with the process of writing. The first is figuring out what the hell to write about. You know how sometimes, when you're thinking about something, I mean, really deep in thought, and you think to yourself, "man, I should write that down" and then you do, and when you see it on paper, it's just not half as witty and interesting as you first thought? Well, maybe you don't know, but I do. And it's annoying. Sometimes, when I'm deep in thought (and this happens to me a lot, especially when I'm walking down a street by myself, which is probably why I tend to bump into people and signposts frequently) I start to think that I'm just one of the most intelligent, eloquent and gosh darn, all around great thinkers of the world with all of these unique and wonderful ideas and insights. And then one of two things happen. 1) I try to write it all down, and I quickly realize these thoughts were a hell of a lot better in the context of my own head. Or 2) (and this is the other problem with my ever becoming an accomplished - or even mildly succesful - writer) I don't bother writing them down and they get lost in the black hole of confusion that is my brain.
So, there you go. No pulitzer prizes for me.
I suppose I could discipline myself. I could make myself write in a journal everyday. Or I could carry around a little notebook and be one of those artsy types who just have to write down anything and everything that is remotely poingnant (how the hell do you spell that? problem #3. I could never get by without a spellcheck...come on, dictionairies are for the computer-iliterate) no matter where I am or what I'm doing and annoy people who are trying to have a conversation with me but keep getting interrupted by the sight of paper and pencil in front of my face. I think I would go for the former. But, as this diary has so expertly revealed, I'm not good at doing the writing thing on a regular basis.
I guess the grand point I'm trying to make in this here little entry is...I don't really have anything interesting or new to report.
I'm in London. Again. I'm relatively bored. I want to go home.
How are you doing?
