i don't know. lately, i've been spitting out blood. mostly in mornings. i know it's because of my left molar that needs a root canal operation. but i think it's also a wake up call. for me to stop prostituting my words. because i am a sell out like that. my insides have rebelled and they want me to stop. so i can have my self-respect back.
for two long months, it has been a writing drought for me. and i don't know how to snap out of it. it's probably because of my technical articles. about solar lights. area rugs. and the best position to get pregnant. i've been dinged for my words so many times by my editors when i was starting out. they're too lyrical, two of them said. they're too verbose. you need to make your words simple. lethargic. mechanical. and more palatable to the average reasonable american.
and so i caved. i brutally cut my sentences. disemboweled certain phrases. so i can meet their standards. one month, okay. two months, okay. third, fourth, fifth months, all fucked up. my words were willed, and they were coercively being spewed out -- until it commenced with their inevitable abandonment. they bailed on me. they severed their ties with the con artist who was willing to prostitute his words for a few dollars.
now, i don't know what to do. each time i try to come up with a decent piece, my words are either too self-conscious or too bland. nothing is complete anymore; everything is inchoate. and the inevitable drought has dragged on for longer than usual.
i don't know what to do.
and i only have myself to blame.