For a second there life became about waiting for a series of explosions, and then of course the eruptions were more like disappointing fizzles. It was the anticipation that did the real damage.
I have set myself up as a person of great candor. “That Molly always speaks her mind!” In some cultures I think this is just referred to as being a bitch. The point is I grow weary. I wish I weren’t the only one. Light pours into the house from outside on all of us and it feels artificial, as though a terrible mistake has been made, switching indoor and outdoor. There’s a tree in the living room and it’s not december and no one says anything about it. No one mentions anything!
Writers are miserably poor and generally only have two suits. There’s the suit of working on something – of steadily chipping away at a piece and feeling not terrible about it. This suit is executive. It’s a tuxedo and it’s only to be worn at weddings and let’s just say our friends are not the marrying type. Otherwise we are cloaked in failure. Symptoms include coughing, a calm, panicked sensation that makes us not want to see our own reflection in the mirror, because who wants to look at a talentless, unproductive hack? etc. You can guess which suit I’m donning these days.
The 50 words (exactly!) I managed to scribble today:
-We've assembled everyone here today because Frank isn't doing well.
Frank crawled under the table and began gnawing on its leg. What a set of teeth Frank has! Like a diamond saw cutting through glass they are.
-Can he hear us?
-Heavens, no. Frank isn't doing well.
And so on.