(no subject)

[thejunipertree]

Mosquito bites all up and down my legs, my
arms, my back. I am one big, twitching pile
of itchy. On first thought, going to an Indian
burial ground at night to lay on a blanket
and look at the stars seemed to be a good idea.
On second thought, I should have reminded myself
how tasty mosquitos seem to find my blood.

I've been finding it so hard to write, lately.
Even just minor journak entries. I can't write
anything for the online Kult game that the
Cheshire Cat runs, though I haraunged him for
many moons to post my character's intro. I've
signed up for a mailing list which the Orphan
runs, but I'm feeling quite intimidated by all
the other things which have been posted to it.
I can't even bring myself to work on the scraps
of short stories I have stored in my hard drive,
though they wail at me in the middle of the
night to finish their labour and bring them
into this world.

It's a capricious, precarious gift. And I'm not
so sure I'd ever be able to make a living at
doing it.

This bothers me, as writing is my breath and
blood. I don't think I'd want to continue
existence if I couldn't accomplish some form of
writing. But, while other people find it so
damn easy to put words on paper, or bytes on
a monitor...it's so very painful to me. Every
word, every nuance, every phrase is ripped from
my skull. It hurts. It's a constant struggle.

I can't pull substance from my dreams, because
I haven't been very adept at remembering them
lately. So, the Lovecraft route is obviously
out. It used to work well for me, but apparently
that door is temporarily closed.

I come up with great ideas constantly.
Maybe I should just try to find work as
a Muse for some poor struggling writer.