sunday bloody sunday

a photo taken a couple days ago.

"the deadline" approacheth.

my nerves are less on edge than they were, but i'm avoiding writing a little. i worked a lot, took an hour break. now i'm amping back up after my break, but i'm not quite there yet.

i got '60s motown playing, otis redding, specifically, and a breeze is wafting end-to-end through my apartment, tickling the spaces between my toes as i contemplate "coffee or orange juice?"

what i really want to do is go lie down by the river and continue listening to otis, but that's not going to happen.

i have this problem. my problem is this: whenever writing something for formal purposes, i sort of lose sense of who i am, stylistically. i try to keep it tidier, more consumable for the masses. instead, it stops being loose. it gets tight in a eat-more-fibre kind of way, and blammo, it gets dull. isn't it lovely living in a society that seems to think there's something to gain from conformity? it fucks me up every time, man.

i'm toeing that line today. managing to keep a little of who i am, but i'm still making it a little too generic. i'm trying to cull my apprehensions, but every now and then i revert to the uptight little dork i once was. the one positive is that i recognize when it's happening. i try to just avoid it, but then i get self-conscious. stupid little cycle. there's a reason they call it a "vicious circle."

ah, life's a bitch. it's all going to be fine. it's been swell, otis, but it's time for a little punk. maybe the living things' "bombs below" will get things flowing. and a vodka screwdriver. it's after 12.

if he were here, gayboy would nod authoritatively, say "damn right," fix me the drink, and deliver his impression of jimmy stewart. "here. drink this. you'll feel better."

i know. i'll have one after i've written for an hour. there we go: a rewards-based writing program. it's all about incentive.

LATER:

i decided to go with The Detroit Cobras, and yes, the screwdriver. and a couple cookies. but not the kind of cookies below. (wah.) but i did clean my pipe, always fun, decided to watch some smart PBS. proof that PBS makes you smarter, kids, right here.

after that, i settled into more writing. end result? just shy of 3,000 words. coupled with my previous efforts and the quotes i still need to get, and i am now on easy street. whew. thank GOD.

having the body like this, i now know the precise subjects on which i need quotes, with open-ended content that can be tightened according to the quote. (this isn't national security, people, so it's not an integrity-of-the-press issue. it's about helmet choices, insurance policies, and ridership trends, so... yes, it's flexible.)

gayboy's heading over now. yes, with food, and with alcohol. score! yay, gayboy. we're going to behave badly and have fun, until 6:59, when his sunday-night fox animation marathon begins, then it's him, his kitty, and his remote. sad, sad, but i suspect many of you can relate. and then i will return for another crack at the nut. reread what i wrote and see if i can further expound.

then, tomorrow: the bloodletting. i will rewrite the beast from top to bottom twice.

then i will hack and slash my way through my verbosity (something i clearly never do on here. hardy-har-har. proof this is a grossly selfish and indulgent exercise on my part...) until i have something resembling an article.

getting the big bulk of it down, like i have today, that's the hard shit. the tweaking's hard but really gratifying. i sadistically enjoy the act of editing something i'm really invested in. yep, i daresay it's fun. i bet i'd actually enjoy being a book editor.

hack, slash, hack, slash.