It was September. It is September. There's a temptation to think, after a spell of not writing, that you just "don't feel like writing anymore". That's a rather grand reduction, and not totally true, in reality I'm totally distracted by many things, at this moment by the current Britishness of my vocabulary, "spell", and "grand", for example, maybe it's to do (another one) with watching the rather desperately uninspiring fourth season of Downton Abbey last week. I don't know much about the mechanics of the new binge-watchable Netflixing, but it seems in this case that killing off your most relatable male character in Season 3 (spoiler alert!) has some significant dramaturgical consequences. Thus we get 4 episodes of third-tier character Moseley looking for work and Alfred trying to get into cooking school. D+.

Otherwise, the not writing bit: I just got tired of writing about medication, being on it, coming off it, living without it, etc. It's not a super rewarding subject to talk about in public b/c if you haven't suffered from any of these problems (insomnia, depression, addiction) you just don't/can't care, or you might care but you'll never really understand ("just go to sleep, you wanker", "just quit moaning and go to the gym you wanker", just have two beers then stop, you wanker"), and if you have had them you already know pretty much everything I'm saying. For me reporting obvious and well-(mis)understood facts has never really been a good enough reason to start typing.

Considering "really writing" here, but as always, that's a fleeting inspiration that almost never lasts past a first draft. Instead, I post pictures of what I've been doing: visiting Mara at work; eating extremely penile organic hotdogs from Hema (if you ever need to buy "a real American hot dog", this is what you should buy, don't bother with the bullshit at the grocery stores); reading Karl-Ove Knausgaard.


1 comment:

Michael O'Neill said...

The great novel buried downer.