book as weapon

I appear to be deluding myself with regard to the presumed cognitive dissonance that prevails over my unending desire to write: it is very simply an excuse for my laziness in the matter. Of course, a lack of inspiration contributes to the stasis as well. But something has changed in the last little while...the ignition of a spark of an idea in my mind has given me a renewed will to act upon the impulse to write. It was something that I wrote on a napkin in a greasy pizza joint in the West Village a couple of years ago. The napkin is gone or lost, but I remember the basics of what I wrote there. I had no idea that I could tie it in to another idea that I thought was completely unrelated. The two fit together, and from this revelation I believe that I can eke out a beginning.

But the beginning will have to wait, again. There is no possible way to approach the physical act of writing while I am entrenched in the mental act of reading Roberto Bolaño's 2666. By its end, I should be sufficiently nonplussed so as not to have any inclination to write, only because it would feel completely hopeless to try and approach any semblance of quality after being beaten over the head with the brilliance of Bolaño's work. As envious as that may seem, I quite enjoy being assaulted with lexical prowess: it doesn't hurt, it simply thrills.