I'm not comfortable calling this writer's block. I'm not a writer, and although this may see a few commenters either tell me to stop pissing and moaning or reassure me that, 'Yes, Ruk, you are a writer' I remain convinced I am not. I consider this a good thing.
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I'm in the gym everyday at the moment. I'm losing weight - fifteen kilograms so far. I'm promised with five more to unwrap that Brad Pitt is waiting inside to pleasantly surprise my wife. A Brad Pitt who can write that is.
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I've been scanning rooms, memories, my brain to come up with something to put down. I've stopped on several, read the ingredients, counted the calories, and decided not to write them for now. I may do later. I may do tomorrow, but today I haven't the appetite - I'm actually, believe it or not, concerned about the imbalance that writing certain things might incur. I've basically got to stop flitting around, find something that has all the parts and concoct them into a decent meal.
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I like titles. If only stories would write themselves after thinking up a title, then I'd be sorted. I actually think my titles are the best part of my writing. I know when I've written something half-decent because the title looks shit. Stink and the Suicides was a shit title for that reason. She multiplies infinity had a good title I think. Living and dying in Petes about matched. ------
I have a couple of titles on my plate. The Great White Masturbator is the first one and I may well churn it out this weekend. It's a vegetarian affair though and so lacking in protein. I'm concerned it will sap my muscle and turn it into fat. The other one is Dog Piss. I could write this one this weekend too, but then I'll be too bloated for the gym and I'll feel bad about it and lose some of that all too precious self-esteem®.
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I've just about finished my cup of blackest coffee made from ground - burns calories by its humongous caffeine count. So, I'm done - see you at the weekend with masturbating or piss. Or nothing.
