I'm wading through brain fog, and the trouble with fog is, you can't see where you're going.
With New York already a distant memory, and my novel marinating nicely on the backburner, I'm having a hard time figuring out what to do with myself. I'm reading a lot, which is great – though I scared myself shitless with Salem's Lot last night and couldn't fall asleep – but the creative juices I need for my third novel are nowhere to be found.
I'm dried out.
I'm printing out what I have of that manuscript so far, which is just over 24,000 words (84 pages), and I know it's a good start because I workshopped a good chunk of it last winter and my class told me so (and they wouldn't lie to me, would they?). I should be excited to be writing another first draft, because first drafts are fun. First drafts don't have rules, nothing has to be perfect. But my brain won't cooperate. My brain wants to download music and watch HBO and do stupid quizzes on Facebook. My brain does not want to get back into the novel I put on pause back in February.
I've spent all day lamenting the new length of my hair (five inches shorter as of yesterday and I'm not sure I like it), contemplating the color of my nail polish (too pink? not pink enough?), and pondering the weeds that are sprouting in my backyard (but clearly I'm not that concerned otherwise I'd have gone out and pulled them). I think about meaningless things like this when I'm making excuses for not writing. Other than this blog, I haven't written a damn thing in ten days. TEN DAYS.
I got no juice. And you can't buy that shit, either – you're either juicy or you're not. Sometimes you can force it, but I don't have the energy to squeeze myself right now.
A bath sounds good. And chocolate cake.
Tomorrow's another day.