That’s what it feels like today.
Last week I did pretty well with this thing I’m writing. But, of course, as predicted, by this Monday I hated it.
I wrote a paragraph that day. Nothing Tuesday. Another page today. I feel stuck. My mind is all over the place except on the novel. Instead of writing a book I’m buying books. From everywhere. Especially England. I know this is an addiction because there’s no way I will ever read them all. But it isn’t the reading, is it? Although I read plenty of them. It’s in the ordering, the arriving, the opening, the smelling of the book, the reading of the quotes, the dedication, the first line.
The above almost sounds like a drug addiction. I don’t know this first hand, but it seems that drug addiction has rituals unlike drinking. Yes, drinking has some, but not like shooting up. At least it’s not that way in what I read. The drugs, I mean. Heroin. My heroin is books.
But I’m supposed to be writing one. Today I feel that I’d be happy if I never wrote another word. Maybe I won’t.