Crap. Crap. Crap. I write crap. I write crap in the beginning and I write crap at the end and then I fill the middle with crap. There is crap in every moment of starring at the blank page and then pretending to have something to say. I don’t have anything to say. I don’t have any grace in saying nothing either. I don’t know my characters. Hello strangers. Crap to you. I don’t know my setting. Crappy rooms and crappy lawns and crappy car. I don’t have a story or themes. I have—yes you guessed it—crap
Some days are like this.
Some days are like a storm beating against your small and delicate craft. You are on a rough sea. Some would say, but not me because I am not so crude, that you are on a sea of rough crap. What can you do? Batten down the hatches, stay inside, and ride it out. In the immortal words of Scarlett O’Hara, a kiss-off to the rise and fall of civilization and the daily struggle, “Tomorrow is another day.”