Strung the fuck out

Watching inspiration dwindle is hysterical. Watching the clarity and prose recycle itself. The first paper was brilliant, the second was good, the third was the first but in worse shape.Words and words that sound neat but so generic.X demonstrates Y, A indicates B, L gives us insight into M. Solely, wholly, and on down the line. This is why drafting exists.

I think I see tracers. A blur here and there. Increase exponentially as neurosis sets in. Cradled in my inability to enjoy myself, I steel myself to push through the last six pages. This is where it gets tough. I am torn. I want to kill this. I want it over and done and finished. On the other hand I love the authors I am comparing and contrasting. Stuart Dybek, my first creative writer that touched me with his words instead gimmicks. Such prose, such sorrow. My newest creative writer, Philip Roth, such turbulence. Such sorrow. I feel an obligation to try, if nothing else, to represent these two icons as clearly as I can.

Then there's the drafting. The poems I must make better a dirge for my Platonic self. Dan: the writer, the poet, the voice of generation. These things are best done in private. My ego is too good at it's job.

It's not acid in my stomach, it's my motivation. The burning stomach, the headache, the cracking and popping joints. They won't go away until The Portfolio is in my "teacher's" mailbox. Then I can sleep the sleep of the dead. I've earned it.