Thursday, July 29, 2010
So that perhaps I am the only person ever on whom antibiotics worked a strange kind of un-magic, or maybe it's the heat, or maybe waiting for literary news plays tricks on my mind, but I have not been me for awhile. Yesterday it took me seven hours to write a client proposal that should have taken half the time. Two days ago, I was stumbling about in the opening pages of Faulkner's The Sound and the Fury (This is Benjy, I kept reminding myself. You are not supposed to understand everything at once.) Every night now, I have either not slept or had terrible nightmares when I tried. And writing a book, or even a page of a book, seemed a task that only either a fool or an infinitely smarter person would undertake.
Today I am that fool (I know I am no smarter). Today (give me an hour or three, to warm up even more to the notion), I am going to see what happens when I stare at a page and ask myself, Okay. So. What in the world happens next?