Last night I wrote a story and I thought it was great and I went to sleep feeling good about myself and I even had some good dreams. But daylight arrived and with it came the laughter of crows and the irritating flight paths of fruit flies drowning themselves in dregs of wine and beside me on the bed was my story, a maggoty stinking corpse.
The words had blackened and the paragraphs were mottled but I could still read the opening bit about the whetstone of amphetamines and alcohol lubricating as it sharpens. My left eye twitched at a string of stock phrases that led to the toilet of creativity like a trail of vomit: mud-caked tires; sinister clowns; the black dog of depression.
Idiot, I said to myself. Trotting out the cancerous mules of cliché and idiom does not a writer make. I mean, do you really think we need another drinking and drugging personal propaganda piece that strikes a pose somewhere between Breaking Bad and Panic in Needle Park?
Go get yourself a cup of coffee and drink it as you delete the decaying contents of your documents folder. If there is anything left then you are probably a sentimental type. If so, you’re fucked. Stop pretending. Close your laptop right now and don’t open it back up until you are ruthless enough and brave enough and crazy enough for blood