Nothing Will Help
A post from new blog The Implex captures my mood today:
A writer is most unsatisfied when writing is done, but also while writing. Between times she is anxious. While writing he mistrusts the easy flow of the pen. A good day can be as deceptive as a bad one. She lives for despair; only then is her self-deception at ease with itself. This is not to say that to be an artist one has to be melancholic – not at all. Once you’ve accepted the unshakable burden of tradition, the poverty of language, the confusion of thought, the provisional nature of every sentence, the long time needed to develop what in the mind takes but an instant, the divide between imagination and work, the misunderstanding with which others, and even you, on-again, off-again, view the finished work, the false starts and falser endings, in short, once the absolutely unlivable conditions of writing become habit – and this almost never happens; only on the doorstep of the madhouse – at this moment you become optimistic, cheery even. There blooms the sense that nothing will help.
One of the things I like best about this blog, is that all of its posts are categorised “Uncategorized”.