With a pen in your mouth, you talk only in vowels.
I wrap my fingers on the desk, a sound so familiar by now, I know it like the back of my hand.
Suddenly, an idea. A revelation, a conclusion, hypothesis.
I scribble on my notepad, the handwriting messy, untidy. Muddled, unkempt, unfastidious.
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Writers block is a real bitch.
Like that sore on the top of your mouth that would heal if you could just stop tonguing it.
Why do we write? We all will end up in the same way; dead, deceased, extinct. Why do I work to have my name remembered? After death, none of it matters anyway.
My mind has a tendency to frustrate itself. One can only shovel out anecdotes that sound a lot smarter than they actually are for so long.
I shouldn’t have put so much into Fight Club, I should have saved some for Survivor or Haunted.
At least Choke got a movie deal.
Movies. What a joke. Fuck the establishment.
I am Chuck’s writers block.