And sometimes the urge to write is so strong, the urge to create whole situations and people and worlds with your words, that stopping the inertia of word-flow (as I've come to refer to it as) is difficult and mostly impossible, spitting words from your fingers like ribbons of ink from the sky as twilight lingers and hoping it never stops; mostly the ideas mull around in your skull, repulsed at the idea of being expressed, the words trickle like tar through gravel on a luke-warm day and the act of writing and the process of it is as impossible as it was before to stop.

I keep telling myself it's good, it's even great, no delusions, just straight up literature. So why do I find it so hard to work? School and friends and love and drugs and (possibly) rock and roll--too much spinning, biding time, delaying what I need to finish to be happy.

And sometimes all I want to do is go into the book aisle at Stop&Shop, or even some of the aisles in B&N and read the first chapters of random books, and laugh and laugh and laugh because I'm better than these fuckers, I may be modest at times but I know I'm a better writer than half these talentless fucks that publish two, three, four books a year.

Mostly I dream about book deals and book tours and wondering what it would be like if people, not mid-class comfortables but real literature-reading people, came up to me and told me they enjoyed my book. Enough money to get by, not real fame but some sort of recognition, and all this anguish and these empty nights staring at the computer screen will be worth it.