What we have here...

...is a failure of inspiration.

I don't really give a damn about the work I'm doing right now, and when I read what I've written the indifference seems to stand out in big day-glo letters.

I think the "delete" key got more use today than any other. Lots of dry, uninteresting paragraphs went down the ol' cyber-oubliette; at this rate, I'll end up erasing every article I've ever written.

The photographer I usually work with called this afternoon. He was full of "x wants us to do a story about y" babble. Do I care? No. X is one of the slimy bastards who can hold stories for months without paying. Besides, y is not a subject that interests me at all.

This only matters because I have no other life right now than my miserable work. If other things were at least on the horizon and not just in fading memories and futile wishes, I could deal with cranking out crap pieces for crap magazines, and do it well.

I'm afraid I may have conveyed my lack of enthusiasm in the phone call.

Ask me if I care.

Oh, well. Tomorrow is another day.

I might wake up full of enthusiasm, ready, willing able to pump out words by the hundreds. I may be able to forget the late checks and the pitifully small numbers written on them. I could even turn out something I'd be proud to use as a sample of my work for prospective clients.

And monkeys might fly out of my butt.