DoolittleBrothers

The muse has been missing the last couple of months. She’s a fickle little skank and probably packed off to warmer environs for the winter. Each morning, I stumble into my library, hoping for a torrent of text to spill from my fingertips. I start off the morning banging away on my old Underwood manual. Few, if any, sounds are more comforting to me than the sound of those keystrokes. Less comforting is the gibberish they’ve been producing on the page of late.

The spillover into my sports writing, the bill-paying part of my writer’s life, has been nigh devastating. The muse isn’t really needed for sports writing, only coherent thought and good information. Unfortunately, coherent thoughts have been few and far between–a tangible issue regarding my scrambled brain chemistry. I keep turning out, day after day, with my ass firmly planted in my desk chair. Eventually, that should pay off, but that day can’t come soon enough for me.

I want to go back to sleep. I can’t go back to sleep. Pandora isn’t helping–it’s playing “Us and Them.” In college, I listened to Dark Side of the Moon each night at bedtime, sober or more likely drunk, for nearly two years. The sound makes me drowsy, happy drowsy, relaxed. This is where I nod to Beckett: I can’t go on. I’ll go on.

The antique writing machine. My guitar is off to the right. It hasn’t been much good to me lately, either. Both are black.

This entry was posted on Monday, February 1st, 2010 at 4:55 am and is filed under Books & Writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.