I’ve got a new idea for a story battling for possession of my plexus. It’s wonderful to have since it means my bucket ain’t empty yet, but it’s also annoying because I have to finish the novel I’m working on.
What to do when a new idea hits you in the sternum and demands you breathe it in?
I’ve tried writing the idea down, but it’s not enough. It’s dribbling into my psyche. Making lewd catcalls from the cave of my skull. Eyeing me with whiskers twitching and soft pink tongue licking. Whistling at me at all hours of the day and night.
It’s disturbing me from the book I’m working on. How the hell do I tame it?
I feel like a juvenile delinquent who’s nabbed a rabbit foot’s keychain and is now being hunted down by six-foot rabbit named Harvey.
It’s been a glorious June in Maine. Flora of every kind blooming in a rich tapestry of stamen and stigma.
Morrissey “Spring-Heeled Jim”
TV on the Radio “Golden Age”
David Bowie “Golden Years”
Vampire Weekend “Oxford Comma”
Bloc Party “The Prayer”
Interpol “Pace is the Trick”
The National “Fake Empire”
Belle and Sebastian “If You’re Feeling Sinister”
The Vaselines “The Devil’s Inside Me” and “Poison Pen”
Echo and the Bunnymen “With a Hip”