The Outbreak

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Still sick. Coughing, achey.

I don't know why I acted, a few days ago, like it was this big revelation that I wanted to write for a living. I ALREADY write/wrote for a living, of course--what I mean is write fiction/comics for a living. That's what the whole purpose of this blog was at first, remember? Getting out of that funk I was in. I agree with all the writers who say there's no such thing as writer's block--there's just unproductive patterns you get into that you need to muster the willpower to get out of. To break out of. The Outbreak--that was the origin of the name, if you recall. Go back and check the first entries and see. And then lo and behold, out come the revenants. Is this what Alanis would call ironic? I can't remember anymore.

Cough, cough.

I've been rereading Clive Barker's Books of Blood lately, a) because there's nothing else to do; b) because it's October and it reminds me of Halloween, which I guess very few kids will be celebrating this year, huh?; c) because life is a giant Clive Barker story now, so why not? If things were normal I'd take solace in the fact that Clive was over 30 when he became the Hot New Thing with these books. I've still got a few years to accomplish something lest the sneaking suspicion that I'm worthless, which I used to assuage by hooking up with lots of girls and now try to ameliorate by creating fiction and stuff, actually become a reality. Or I would if things were the way they used to be. Maybe there'll still be a market for this stuff in a few years, maybe not. Who knows. No new TV season this fall. that's a bad sign, right? I really wanted to learn what was going on in Lost. Were the Sopranos supposed to come back this fall, or was it next year? Star Wars III? Cough cough cough cough cough.


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