I’m in the thick of it, Gentle Reader. The viscous stringiness. The clinging to every pore. The infection that drowns all my words and thoughts and ideals. I denied it for a while, but then, given my lack of writerly enjoyment, my withdrawn attitude, I figured it out.
I’ve got the Mean Reds, and I’m in the thick goopiness of it.
Not the blues, because Holly GoLightly was right about that distinction. The blues are when you eat chocolate and drink some calming tea. The Mean Reds are when you feel it, deep down in your bones. When you want to squeeze your frustrations in your fist and use that energy to shore up something deep and dark and internal.
The start of a novel keeps running through my mind, a new beginning for the barely-started Persuaded. And instead of writing it down, I’m letting the Mean Reds get the best of me, tripping over myself and my frustrations so that I can’t feel anything else.
I need to ride this goopiness, let it ooze out of me so that only I am left.
No wonder I’m blogging so much.
The Postmodern Bluestocking 