I am reading by dim lamp light. There is a comedian in a teenage melodrama tearing his material from notebooks on the television. I know how this man, though fictional, feels. There is something therapeutic about the act of destroying the contrived parts of yourself.
The book is Thirsty, a novel by M.T. Anderson, that I picked up in a bookstore while doing a reading several months back. I've read a chapter and a half and have laughed more than once. It does not seem like the type of book that would make me laugh.
I feel as though my mind has been whirring with too many possibilities lately, and is trapped by the what could be. I am taking a break with this novel, and an audiobook of Jules Vernes' Mysterious Island, which I plan to listen to while I drive seven hours to Minneapolis this weekend. Perhaps if I cannot make sense of my own writing right now, someone else's words will serve to inspire me.