Fillet of Soul

Argh -- the NaNoWriMo thing has begun, and the first day was revealing. Actually, right now is pretty revealing. I'm sitting with an empty beer bottle, and empty can of generic Diet Coke, and an empty mug with a sodden tea bag at the bottom of it arrayed on my desk. And I've been staring at a stark white Word screen, wondering what's going to materialize story-wise on it. There's a corner to be turned here -- I haven't done any real writing in so long, it's hard to knock that little insty-editor off my shoulder and getting the keys flying. And the banana Yankee candle that's been burning for the past several hours isn't doing much but make me wish I had some pie.

I've heard that Stephen King's muse takes the form of a fat guy in a tee shirt, who apparently whispers evil storylines in his ear or something. I've yet to have my muse really take any real form. When it does, I'm kind of hoping it looks something more like Mia Sara, and is much more clever than I am with its fiction. I'm definitely going to have to crank it up tomorrow -- going to see Liz Phair Monday night at a very small venue (same one I saw Dave Wakeling at) -- maybe I can get the issue of whether or not her new album is a shot at a wholesale sell-out or an insidious backdoor subversion of adolescent girls (listen to "HWC" from her latest album for a good "omigod!" moment).