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18 October 2002 I've been writing a short story lately, spurred by a sudden desire to have something published in the college literary magazine. I realize this is not a lofty goal, having been a judge for said magazine a few years back. (I got to judge poetry. There were a few good things in my batch, a lot of so-so stuff, and a few of the "I love him / I love him so / I love him so much / I'll never let him go" variety.) Still, despite the modest intent here, I'm finding the writing to be difficult. I started out strong, but am now stuck. Part of the problem is that I feel kind of ridiculous writing fiction. I have to freedom to make my characters do anything I want, but none of the choices I come up with sound right or plausible. I always imagine people in my past (fourth-grade teachers, exes, co-irkers) reading what I write and laughing their asses off (not in a good way, either) and this is also uninspiring. Combine all of this with the general hard-work-avoidance pattern I've been in lately, and I'm surprised I'm even writing this. Lunch yesterday: prosciutto, roasted pepper, basil and mozzarello panino, accompanied by a salad and gnarled, crispy potato chips. Happy mouth! Lunch today: hastily made ham sandwich on moldy bread with mustard. In the dim morning light, I failed to notice said mold. Ate sandwich, oblivious to mold. Realized what had just passed my lips the moment I tasted the mold. Nothing could cleanse my mouth of this taste, the taste of an oozing pile of old dank socks: not coffee, not string cheese, not beer, not mouthwash. |
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