The days are slipping by, noticeable but brief, like a swig of whiskey in some black Irish tea. I am wearing the same green sweatshirt I always wear because I am a creature of habit & really nobody else wallows in their own nationality like the Irish. I am forgetful. I left the dog outside this morning so I gave him an extra biscuit. I think I have bought his forgiveness. Dogs are awesome like that. I cannot remember the simplest of things like taking medications & paying my bills & returning messages although I suspect my pronounced hatred of the telephone is subtly playing tricks on my subconscious mind so that I forget. My dreams have been dull & obvious these last couple of nights :: I have a huge trailer strapped to my back which I must pull along with me everywhere I go & it is very heavy & difficult to maneuver :: I comb my hair & my scalp peels away in great sheets of dermis, that sort of thing. Boring.
I am in the midst of two manuscripts--one poetry, which is in the late stages of revision & one fiction, which exists only as a series of notes in a spiral bound journal. Over the last couple of weeks I met a couple of fiction writers who tell me that prose doesn't pay any more than poetry & I believe them. (Unless you write about sparkly lovesick vampires & I am tired of those.) I should write romance novels or chick lit but I am not romantic. As a general rule I find weddings & babies to be nice in a generic sort of way but also very boring. I would rather put out my own eye with a hot pencil than write about romance. I am slow with everything because I am having headaches & chest pains & dizzy spells that I suspect are brought on by anxiety & an excess of caffeine. I keep returning to the same topics. My mind is quite full of repetitions. Stupid, nonsensical worries that wear grooves in my brain cells & spin & spin & spin until until the needle wears out & I cannot think at all. I forgot LOST was on yesterday which has me feeling bummed although I can watch it online but it's not the same.
Susan Slaviero lives on the cusp of a hellmouth, where she vanquishes evil with poetry and cupcakes. She hopes to someday land a job as either a dog whisperer or a telephone psychic. In the meantime, she writes. She has a fondness for esoterica.