Daylight Insomnia

I used to laugh at the idea of writer's block. I thought it was just an excuse for not writing -- an excuse for mediocrity. I thought, there's always something to write. You just string words together and voila. You've got a paragraph. Before you know it, you've got a finished product. No excuse.

And now that it's later, and I've faced a blank page, I find there's truth in "writer's block." Every seven years you grow a new skin. I'm on four incarnations myself. Scratch another notch in the wall.

The cat is crying at the bookshelf.

I also thought, if it's a skill that comes too easily, it isn't worth doing. By transitivity I thought, I get compliments on my writing. That must be my skill. So I shouldn't do it. I should try everything else and see if the skill translates to something else. Saying it out loud, or even here, it sounds silly. But how often do we convince ourselves that we believe in something silly? I see. It's just me.

Today I was bored. I watched too much television. I made dinner. I washed dishes. I finished Syberia. I counted the hours until bedtime.

This is not important. It's just what I did. Isn't it funny -- I mean, I'm amazed by it -- the fingerprint we leave on the language we use. When I'm not shooting my mouth off, I'm listening to the rhythm of what you say. I'm eavesdropping on your conversation. I sit myself somewhere unobtrusive, and I listen to you. You only lack the validation of knowing. And I am rewarded with snippets of exposition. I am gifted with the seams. You keep the fabric.