I have that weird feeling in my brain. The one that precludes either a stint of creative writing or a long intellectual conversation with Amy. I swear to God that I feel different in my brain when it feels like it wants to think. Aaron thinks I’m crazy.
Thing is, I don’t really have any pressing tales of fiction to tell, no poetry oozing from my fingers. I had contemplated busting out the Kay and strumming a few chords, but I don’t think that would do it for me. As for writing, I’m tired of writing simplistic me-disguised-as-hero stories. I’m also tired of reverting to my junior high days and writing soft porn (yes, ladeez and gents, Diana has a libido, frightening as that may be to you).
I wish I could be like Isaac Asimov (lofty, I know) and plunk out a decent short story in 20 minutes flat. Hell, I wish I could write a decent short story at all. —OK, maybe that one was pretty alright, but besides that… *shrug*
Maybe I just need to write more often, instead of maybe once every four months. Write fiction, I mean; I write in my LiveJournal (or, previously, my main blog) nearly every day. My eighth-grade English teacher once told me that, like a world-class athlete, a writer like me should practice every day.
…
Whoa. My intelligent train of thought was just completely derailed by Sir Mix-a-Lot making an appearance in my random mp3 playlist. My brain is now filled with images of a big black guy in shades dancing on a giant peach, surrounded by black chicks with much booty.