The kitchen isn't clean. No wonder I can't write anything.
I wish I had some kind of a muse to blame or depend upon, but I have not even got a Reader across the valley that I can glean inspiration from, watching with my spyglass (Calvino). Things keep turning around in my head--a little like standing in on of those spacious mallways watching the carousel go round and round but searching for a single feature, maybe a caricature or the decoration on the saddle of a rearing horse. I don't know how to explain it.
All rubbish. I need a subject to write about, but I can't think of one that inspires me. My familiar worlds are lost to me since Calvino's novel--they all have individual voices that I can't be sure are really their own voices . . . paranoia sets in! Ermes Marana and filling the world with apocrypha . . . I really must try to write something whole--maybe something that will be part of the unitary book, made up of all the books that we have ever read?
Anyway, I'm making dinner tonight. I like cooking (most of the time), but I wish I could write today. I did have a beautiful spurt of writing last Wednesday night:) Somehow off of my fingers came something about a teenage superhero; I laughed till I was sick that I actually wrote about a teenage superhero. But I do have a few young people in my mind with adventures of their own; I just never get enough detail to come out with anything.
Maybe I will try to write in the style of Tim O'Brien, with hypotheses and evidences and certain chapterly facts. But what to write about? Writing? We shall see. Back to the kitchen and the dirty bathrooms and laundry and wilting flowers on the table.