There’s a valve somewhere in my head that switches off when my reserve of words are low. Maybe it a lack of inspiration or creativity rather than words. Maybe it’s both.
I’ve been conserving words the last week or so, which is why I haven’t blogged or in some cases, haven’t replied email and comments. Sorry.
The only instance I had to squeeze some words out was out of job description; I had articles to turn in this week and they are not at a quality I am proud of. (But knowing the extremely strange temperament of readership here, they’ll more likely be lauded as better than articles I actually poured blood and tears into.)
I’ve changed templates on this blog about five times between this post and the last, thinking I’ve found something that works before stumbling into something better. I think I’ll settle for now. This layout is clean, pretty and my widgets aren’t exploding out of their boxes.
I read four books in the space of days, usually finishing a book within the day I started and picking up a new one. The Disused Well (Othman Wok), The Sky is Crazy (Yvonne Lee), Susuk (Amir Hafizi) and Mary, Mary (James Patterson).
I’m tempted to reread Tash Aw’s The Harmony Silk Factory but so far I’ve been resisting because I can never really afford to spend time reading something I’ve already reviewed. I may be the fastest reader in the paper (hence the book review column), but there’s this period of dryness to consider.
When I got tired of looking at words, I went and caught up with Heroes. I watched 12 episodes in 3 days. I’m planning to get started on Season 2 of Veronica Mars, and later, Season 1 of Supernatural. I’d rather wait until I can get the entire season because I won’t be able to function if I have to wait a week for the next episode.
I went through the slew of blog subscriptions that have been piling up since I returned from KL, enjoying every morsel of new information.
I’m definitely showing signs of starvation.
Before there is output, there has to be input. Before I can spin words into images, I have to drink in the written words of others. If I don’t read, I can’t write. I know other writers who described the writing process in the same way, so I know I’m not crazy.
In any case, I don’t mind crazy. Crazy is more interesting than normal.
If I leave my normal life for a few days, I come back a different person. It’s always the “figuring out who came back” part that screws up the regular programme.