For some reason, tonight, I'm having a lot of trouble writing. I'm trying to fiddle with a rewrite that I should have handed in last week and I'm not getting anywhere with it. Conclusion: writing is stupid. And yet I WANT to be writing. I'm in the MOOD to be writing. Frustrating! Impotence! Clenching of fists!
In this mindset, I decided to look through some of the old sketchbooks I keep hidden in my storage closet. Of course, this was very foolish of me. My sketchbooks from highschool through college are all uniquely horrible. Each one is a vortex of agony unto itself. In addition: I can't draw worth a shit. Why do I keep doing it? Maybe the solution is to burn the house down? Drawing is fun, but looking at things one has drawn (when one sucks as I do) is painful and bizarre, and must never happen again.
I can't even write here, now. This post. I deem it STUPID. So that is a clear sign that I should stop trying. Not in general, just tonight. And go read. Also, remind me not to post this.
1 comment:
What? I love those sketchbooks. The ones I've seen, anyway. You'd always come up with something weird and original and brilliant, and I'd want to copy it (and sometimes, being weak willed, simply did).
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