Because I'm dying. I joined a writing workshop in order to give myself deadlines, and now, with the self-deadline of Friday looming, I feel as if I have shit for brains, will never write anything ever again, and should probably never even have given up financial journalism or english tutoring. Disaster.
I went for a walk in Prospect Park to think about the story I'm rewriting and get some exercise and fresh air, but instead of becoming relaxed, my thoughts started swirling towards warped, dark sexuality and violence. None of which seem relevant to the story I'm working on. So I tried thinking about other stories where those images might fit. Instead of purging them, it made them darker, harsher, more nightmarish, seeping in to every story I could think of, all razors edges and pain and fear so intense but disconnected from everything around me it neared the hallucinatory.
Reading David Sheff's "Beautiful Boy", about his meth-addict son Nic, and then going online to read Nic's version of the story was clearly not the best way to prepare for a day of writing.
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