About six months ago, I came across a lovely woman who quoted McInerney to me, which was a thrilling moment out in the suburbs. Simply stated (according to McInerney), asking a writer about the progress of his work is akin to asking about the progression of a person’s cancer. Which I generally agree with.
But in the several months since that moment, I’ve been afflicted with a terrible case of writer’s block. I’ve determined the root cause at this point (addiction + guilt), and in the process of diagnosis, I’ve compulsively read treatises on how to write, traveled backward to my favorite writers and scenes, traveled forward to expand my knowledge and experience, and even talked with others ad nauseam about this particular issue (which is drastic and something to be avoided). One thing is clear: I’m the writer who likes to dabble around like child with finger paints, or like a jazz musician in his off-moments, playing with words in a playful manner, creating a broad masterpiece (and not something ugly brown & brassy-colored).
I’ve been in the cancer stage too long, unwilling to play and paint – it’s high time to progress toward to the ‘reconstruction of the crime scene’ stage, then to the ‘marathon’ stage, then the ‘hospital visit’ stage. Then the ‘shameless shill’ stage?
But no more brain crack: