“You need a major book project,” she growled, staring past me over the top of her wine glass. (Black humor becomes her so.)
This was true. It would certainly keep me off the streets, if I ever went into them. I tell myself I don’t know what to write about. People yell at me and say, “Just WRITE!”—which is what I’m doing now, of course. But it isn’t a book. I have half a dozen minor projects, but no major one. There are only limited works of mine for you to buy, and I am less than rich. What a goddamned nuisance.
Just when I’d figured out the meat of being “blocked,” too. The sustenance. The joy. Blocked, hell, these days are like gold! The extended tension is exquisite. Libido in the toilet, hanging by my thumbs? Awriiight! Hard liquor before noon? Shut up! Wear the same clothes every day? Oh, baby! Put butter on Ritz crackers, get mugged at the dentist, see if the new bread knife fits between my ribs? This is living it, my brothers.
It’s the ultimate validation!