(no subject)
Fuck.
I'm sorry but that's as far as i can go with thinking of a modern day cuss word. Yes, that's how constipated i feel. It's almost as if all the vocabulary i have learnt throughout this twenty seven years have been sucked dry by a vacuum set on dismembering my ambitions.
Four days to the submission deadline and i'm stuck with a blank palette. Zero. Nada. Zilch.
Oh god, what's another good word to describe emptiness?
Maybe it's the environment, the phase in life, the state of mind. I don't know, words don't come to me anymore. Well actually they do, but they sure don't make any sense at all. You see, writing a story isn't just about stringing words together to make a grammatically coherent sentence.
It's about the storyline, the tease, the build up and the magnificent climax. Everyone loves a good orgasm. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand and you fall into the abyss of a serene obliviousness for those few precious moments.
It's not hard to get a hard-on. Excuse me, i mean "to start writing". I mean, i can write a story about how an apple met an orange anytime, but the fact of the matter is that it won't quite be a story, no? I'm trying desperately to recall how i started writing back then in university, when I was seemingly as powerful as Magneto from X-Men. Words, phrases, puns and metaphors flew to me at the simple exertion of my will.
I stare at the blank screen in front of me, channelling my utmost concentration toward the keyboard. I type, i type harder, i type like a madman on a mission to convince the nurse that he's really quite sane. Two minutes later, Miss Backspace comes along and i practically fall in love with her, much to the dismay of all the other lovely alphabets i've made swoon over me.
I'd probably have more luck shooting myself dead with an empty revolver than getting a story out by Friday.
So someone, please, shoot me.
I'm sorry but that's as far as i can go with thinking of a modern day cuss word. Yes, that's how constipated i feel. It's almost as if all the vocabulary i have learnt throughout this twenty seven years have been sucked dry by a vacuum set on dismembering my ambitions.
Four days to the submission deadline and i'm stuck with a blank palette. Zero. Nada. Zilch.
Oh god, what's another good word to describe emptiness?
Maybe it's the environment, the phase in life, the state of mind. I don't know, words don't come to me anymore. Well actually they do, but they sure don't make any sense at all. You see, writing a story isn't just about stringing words together to make a grammatically coherent sentence.
It's about the storyline, the tease, the build up and the magnificent climax. Everyone loves a good orgasm. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand and you fall into the abyss of a serene obliviousness for those few precious moments.
It's not hard to get a hard-on. Excuse me, i mean "to start writing". I mean, i can write a story about how an apple met an orange anytime, but the fact of the matter is that it won't quite be a story, no? I'm trying desperately to recall how i started writing back then in university, when I was seemingly as powerful as Magneto from X-Men. Words, phrases, puns and metaphors flew to me at the simple exertion of my will.
I stare at the blank screen in front of me, channelling my utmost concentration toward the keyboard. I type, i type harder, i type like a madman on a mission to convince the nurse that he's really quite sane. Two minutes later, Miss Backspace comes along and i practically fall in love with her, much to the dismay of all the other lovely alphabets i've made swoon over me.
I'd probably have more luck shooting myself dead with an empty revolver than getting a story out by Friday.
So someone, please, shoot me.