That’s me and I’m none too happy about it, either.
You see, I’m at the age where birthdays are like a membership in Fruit of the Month club — it comes too often and you get too many of them. Way, way too many. Can anyone tell me how to cancel the damn things? What the heck am I supposed to do with all these birthdays? Holy cow, enough already. Uncle.
Want to know what I got? An absolutely beautiful day, a haircut, and a DVD, The Girl Who Played with Fire. The Swedish version. Want to know what I didn’t get? My narrative flow back, it’s still AWOL. And I’m starting to get mad. Seriously. I’ve been looking for the stoopid thing for more than year now, I’ve looked high and I’ve looked low. I’ve searched hither and yon, far and wide, here and there. And guess what I found. Bupkis. Zip. Not even a trace.
Well, who needs a narrative flow, right? So what if the text is choppy and the prose lurches awkwardly from cliché to banality to platitude? Hackneyed writing and lame ideas deserve to exist, too, you know. At least that’s what I keep telling myself. But, oh, how I miss the days when I’d happily tap away at my keyboard, finding new ideas and new ways to express them. Those were good times. Past tense.
Now, I sit at my computer and gnash my teeth. Where’s the fun in that? There isn’t any, I checked. I tried to convince myself I was having fun, but I never believed me. Sure, I pretended like I did, but I didn’t fool me. Not for a second.
So, on this, my blasted birthday, I’m going to make a new start. I’m going to stop waiting for my old style, my old technique to return. Who needs it? I’ll find a new one. A better one. I’ll write like I’ve never written before and be happier because of it. Ha, so there. Maybe.
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