I’m sick.
Not with a fever or muscle aches or even allergies….
I have all the symptoms of “writer’s block“, a disease peculiar to writers — or in my case, a wanna-be writer.
I have lots of posts started — none finished.
One-hundred-twenty-one posts in the Drafts folder.
That’s a lot of procrastination.
This’ll be one-hundred-twenty-TWO.
Maybe I’ll be struck by the muse after a few glasses of this…or maybe not.
Happy Friday, y’all!
Edward Albee-Courtesy of flavorwire.com
“Well, when I was six years old I decided, not that I was going to be, but with my usual modesty, that I was a writer. So I starting writing poetry when I was six and stopped when I was twenty-six because it was getting a little better, but not terribly much. When I was fifteen I wrote seven hundred pages of an incredibly bad novel—it’s a very funny book I still like a lot. Then, when I was nineteen I wrote a couple hundred pages of another novel, which wasn’t very good either. I was still determined to be a writer. And since I was a writer, and here I was twenty-nine years old and I wasn’t a very good poet and I wasn’t a very good novelist, I thought I would try writing a play, which seems to have worked out a little better.” — In an interview with The Paris Review, 1966
Enchanted Seashells by Princess Rosebud 