I was trying to write but couldn't. Maybe it's the beer. Maybe it's boredom with the story. Maybe I'm experiencing writer's block. I don't know. What I do know is that I've come to a point where I just needed to get away and focus on something mindless.
So here I am, blogging.
I could write about a variety of things to get my fingers moving. For one, the beer. I know it doesn't help. I've only had a few, but still. It's not like I need it. My day wasn't so harrowing that I need to resort to booze (though booze does help). I was on such a fine clip with my novel, why did I hit a brick wall? Like I said, the beer doesn't help. See? Now I'm repeating myself.
The annoyances of my neighborhood are a little distracting (is that a word, 'annoyances'?). I've lived here for ten years. Holy fuck. TEN YEARS in this two-bedroom apartment situated in the carotid of Escondido, California (notice I didn't say 'heart,' because that's over on 9th Avenue, where the gangbangers do a lot of banging). Anyway, my point is that I should be used to what's going on out there. The fact that it's after 5 might have something to do with it. The hustle and bustle is at its worst. We live on a main thoroughfare, where traffic zooms by in streams, and at least once a day we're greeted with sirens of some kind - police, ambulance, fire. Seriously. At least once a day. Just a half hour ago was the first since I got home after one.
Maybe I'm bored with my novel-in-progress. It seems I've always had a novel-in-progress. This one, though, feels to me to be the most progressive of all. Why? Because I'm actually in the thick of it. But dammit, I hit that wall. I even tried working on another story, as writers like to suggest. "The goal is to keep writing," they all say. All of them. Even I say it. "When you just can't bring yourself to work on one thing any longer, work on another." Fine. But holy Christ, what if you just can't bring yourself to work at all?
I won't even comment on writer's block. Frankly, I don't think it exists. If that were the case, I wouldn't be writing this (not that this particular rant took much thought).
Thank you for enduring my tirade. The sun is still shining, the weather is beautiful, the beer is cold, and I have a big fat salmon in the fridge waiting to be steamed.
Life, ultimately, is good.