writer's block.

[elsbeth]

  I think that I look my best when I've been reading. There is something vaguely not there, when I'm still half in the story with my smudged glasses and my hair in a haphazard ponytail to keep out of my way. My clothes are rumpled and I don't notice that my buttons are half done or fastened wrong, I have just scaled a wall, climbing out of another person's head. I feel full of possibilities when I've been reading for hours on end. I want to grab up my computer or a pen or an axe and start hacking words out of myself to show the world. I never seem to manage it though. The ideas just don't seem to come anymore. My fiction is juvenile but would be the far more lucrative path. I miss fiction and how much fun it was to build characters out of nothing. I can't imagine getting back into it though, every time I try they just seem so...plastic.

Here, like so many other places in my life I find that fiction just cannot hold up when placed along side the truth of my life. So many of the people and places I have been are so thrillingly fantastically funny that I cannot write more interesting characters from scratch. It is the most profoundly unsettling form of writers block.
I want so desperately to write now. I want to be a real writer and live off of words and coffee and cigarettes. Ah, the good life.
I crave.