I’ve been writing all day Sunday and today, and I hate every single little word that I’ve inscribed on this meaningless screen. One of the pieces is 10 pages long (single spaced), and it took me about six hours to get out and then about two hours to edit down to something readable. And still, I think it lacks a story line, let alone contains meaning or some sort of purpose.

And you know what? I seriously haven’t watched more than 1 hour of television or film for pure pleasure in about two months. It’s either been writing, reading, or going out on these weird adventures with my partner in crime, Mari. Driving around in silk nighties with red lipstick while listening to Bob Dylan’s Freewheelin’ or reading Edgar Allen Poe by candle light at the edge of the lake or wearing wigs and fake black eyes or playing Quentin Taratino drinking games or writing secret notes to each other. So many things. So why does my writing still suck??