Junk yard

Right now, my brain is a junk yard. I have the definite impression that there are hidden treasures lurking here, if I could only just clear the lumber and the faux antiquities, the slag-heap of yellowing papers out of the way. Something priceless might be hidden, a lost Vermeer or another of Nabokov's forgotten masterpieces. Until I start digging, I can dream.

I am in self-imposed limbo awaiting the agent's verdict, unable to begin writing anything new for fear the problems afflicting the last ms are endemic. This week, I have turned out a 300 word flash, straying back to literary fiction because it's my comfort zone in times of doubt, a place I can take cover (under a warm, worn tapestry of words) hiding from the monster, Plot.

It won't last. I won't let it. Increasingly, I don't count it as writing if it feels too safe, too easy. I suspect this makes me a fool, and possibly arrogant also. Ah, well.