christmas eve. and im talking to this friend of mine on the other side of the country. about how many
beautiful women there are in our lives. and learning how to love them all. but society says we must
pick one. that
music affects what we write about. how we write. sitting at my typewriter. so unfocussed. listening to
the soundtrack to pulp fiction. wanting to continue. or finish one of the half dozen stories i have lying
in a pile next to my typewriter. but somehow im not in that kind of mood. i cant write a story of
darkness. or deep sexuality. or. dont really know what to write. so im writing this.
last night i was feeling kind of lonely. not lonely per se. but missing in some way that whole idea of a
girlfriend (how often does this happen to me. and in many cases how often is it my own fault for not
having the courage to simply go up and talk to a stranger i dont know. or making some sort of
innuendo to one of your friends who youve been attracted to for the past five months). i looked
through the newspaper at the romance ads. and was thinking about calling one of them. the only
one i could find that sounded intriguing. then a friend calls long distance and we each talk about our
romance woes.
and now its the morning again and i simply want to write. but not knowing what to write about. the
longing from last night temporarily gone. but also the drive to pick up the phone and respond. stuck
in an impasse. did i mention that the average character width of an eight and a half by eleven piece
of paper is eighty characters?
staring at things knowing something must be done. last night as i gave advice to just take the risk. go
out there and do something. and here i am typing, not taking that risk.