A teacher told me once that if I write, then I am a writer. That may be true. That probably is true, but I have a hard time accepting it.
Upon my desk is a spread of various notebooks, post-its and other odds-and-ends that make my life seem very busy and interesting–almost like the desk of some inventor working tirelessly in the early waking hours of the morning. Test tubes and wrenches are replaced by broken ipods and blank CD’s, random keys and a two-year-old condom.
“Cat’s Cradle” is funny though not as engaging so far as “Slaughterhouse Five”. He seems like the type of writer I could easily see myself becoming some version of; one who has given up on flowery rhythms and who, instead of describing the majesty with which the steed jumped over the rail, merely says “the fucking horse jumped over the rail and that was it.”
I am tired and feel a similar frustration to Vonnegut’s with writing. It seems if I am to write every day, then I will either write, or write about not being able to write. If all my journals were to ever be published in one volume, eighty percent of them would be about not being able to write anything.
The Packers won and I am happy. The commercials, one half of which were about cars while the other half were about male enhancement, once again proved that the media is controlled by old, out-of-shape white men.
I am looking now upon what I’ve written and am mildly impressed. It seems I’m re-entering my phase of wanting to do nothing more than read. I’m either taking in or spilling out. Why I can’t do both is unknown, but apparently my streak of inspiration is drawing to a close. This cannot be the case with all writers. I’m probably blowing this all out of proportion. Talk to you in a year.