I’m doing my usual dicking around on the internet and I come across this post about how Kafka journaled about writer’s block. I’m thinking to myself, “cool the guy who dreamed up the hell-scape that is waking up as a giant roach couldn’t write, either.” I guess I’m doing well, then.
I can’t even manage to finish up a hot take on how Roseanne demonstrates the baseless feeling of accomplishment or putout-ed-ness the newly-old have when confronted over the brittle facade of tolerance they construct just above their homophobia in lieu of acceptance. It’s left half written and, if finished, will be a luke-warm take at best.
The last thing I need to hear is that it took years to craft the “I’m a roach” novel. I just assumed that he lived life 24/7 in a nightmarish life and/or drug-induced state of hallucination.
Next, I’m sure to find out that it took Faulkner years to construct my favorite chapter of all time: “My mother is a fish.”
Fine. I like to romanticise the great authors to make my lacking feel less… lacking. I imagined Dostoevsky was just luridly penning a terrible auto-biography in Notes from Underground. I know I’m wrong. I just like to continue living thinking that I’m less because I am and not because I don’t try.
Maybe I’ll try?