I just hit the wall. No wait. That's a total lie. I hit the wall, like, three days ago, and I've been just running at it and bashing my head into it repeatedly ever since.
C'mon, you know this wall. It's that big ugly mother, dismal grey breezeblock. About thirty feet high and kinda scuzzy. Right next to the kilroy wuz here graffiti is a message for me, in ALL CAPS. And it goes something like this:
"You are the worst writer in the world ever and your current script stinks worse than those skunks that hang around your neighborhood at night. Why are you even trying? You should go find another job at once. Something menial. That doesn't require an ounce of creativity. You could start by cleaning this wall for one."
Hmph. Stupid wall. Like I said, it's been three days, and my head is all bloody and smashed to bits (metaphorically, c'mon I'm not that screwed up) and the wall still stands. Is it growing? I think it's growing.
There is no excuse for me this week.
It's Screener Time! "The Post."
4 months ago