And he cannot write.
He chatters about motivation and emotional arc but the characters seem like straw dolls, simulacra.
He runs outside to stare at the night sky, filling his lungs, but the cold air does not burn, and the stars are paste chips. He drinks deeply of wine, but it tastes of oatmeal, a thin slurry of feh. He thrusts his hands into the fire but feels only woolen softness. He screams but no sound comes. He bites his lips and tastes no blood.
And he cannot write.
Brick wall; towering cliff; windless ocean; rain dripping on crows; silence in the great forest; a hand closed into a fist; a smile faded; a head hooded and withdrawn; a curtain closed. Nails bitten; keys stroked; sun hidden; fire doused. And he cannot write.
2 comments:
You're going to hate this, but you've struck the wellspring of emo. Now you just need to dye your, well, head black, get some skintight jeans, a fixie bike, and an ironic moustache.
Buck up, little camper! Perspective and fermenting time are good. I think my book is great, and I haven't touched it for four months!
On the contrary..that is some of the most descriptive writing you've done. It may not be what you want to write right now but it is awesome. You haven't lost that gift. Hang in there and let things come when they are ready.
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