Something in me wants to write fiction, but not just any kind of fiction - the flowery, overdone kind that reeks of pixies and pretension and the like. I want to describe a sunset ten different ways, and wax philosophical on the analogies a walk through the forest might afford.

But nothing comes. Well, plenty comes, but it's all rubbish and frustrating and hollow and bare and suddenly I feel like I'm not that good at this and it scares me because what the hell else is there that I haven't come to realise that I'm not that good at?

Maybe I need a good pen to paper exercise.

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- - 2006-05-29
- - 2006-05-01
on The Ineffable - 2006-03-27
on being a matyr - 2006-03-23
- - 2006-03-17