Symptoms of Cretinism

An exerpt from Neil Gaiman's blog: Dear Mr. Gaiman, I read your advice to the 23 year old writer ('tricia), about how to deal with feeling like a crap writer when you're so young. But what do you do when you're 30? I've written a novel that only my friends want to read (bear in mind, one of those friends is a book editor at a major US paper), but no agent or publisher wants to touch?What does one do when they can't get a break? I want to write, but no paper will hire me to write. Right now I'm an editor at a website, but I'd barely call it editing. I write screenplays and am working on other prose projects, but I guess what I'm getting at is, should there be a point when one must say "enough is enough. This isn't going anywhere. It's time to stop before this starts to hurt more than I can bear"?I bear responsibility for my actions as a writer, I know, and I've squandered many chances. I am at a low point, and I'm not sure th...

I stare at the blinking cursor in front of me and wonder what’s next. I let myself get swallowed up by the monotony of office life: wake up, eat, travel, work, sleep; I try to revel in its off-white walls and the cacophony of voices that course through my head like nails scratching a blackboard. Funny, that word – blackboard – like my mood, black and bored, or better yet, like me – a black board. But the human tendency for self-preservation drives me to find things to fill the void; sometimes with fleeting trifles I try in vain to attach meanings to, or sometimes with things intangible and profound, like hope, or faith. But it seems that there is no rest for the dammed. Damned by the reminders of past mistakes, damned by the hollow tedium of today, and damned by the uncertainty of what lies ahead. Or it could be that I’m really just bitter, as someone pointed out not so long ago. Not a bad conclusion, really, with me allowing myself to be consumed by memories of failure, or by the bana...

I've been staring at the computer for hours, trying in vain to put down something that even remotely makes sense. Almost two hours have gone by since the office dismissal bell rang, and all I've managed to write amounts to a very measly 26 words. How's that for two hours' work? I'm still trying to get to grips with the intricacies and the details of my new assignment at work - which is basicaly slaving myself more and just hoping for more pay. The people here seem to think it's cool, though, and keep dropping hints that I buy them food - and by hints I mean big, good-sized hints as large as, I don't know, elephants? This of course, stirs my Chinese blood to fits of frenzy, so I restrain myself from clutching my heart, smile, and say "I'll try," or "Maybe one these days." And yes, I know, I'm being a scrooge and I cannot escape the inevitable - believe me, my wallet feels like Manji on Kessen-satsu already.

Right now, my brain is mush, so my mental capacity is moot. Earlier, I tried to poke it with a stick, to see if it would move or something, but all it did was make a disgusting squishy sound. I tried electricity, but then it transformed into something that not only made even more disgusting squishy sounds, but something that looked disgustingly squishy. So please, don't ask me any hard questions, or why my head feels more like a soup in bread bowl - attention: Hannibal Lecter - lest my brain completely liquefies and floods out of my ears or something. I won't be able to clean the floor. Squish, squish. There it goes again. -------------------------------- For Now Avenue Q PRINCETON: Why does everything have to be so hard? GARY COLEMAN: Maybe you'll never find your purpose. CHRISTMAS EVE: Lots of people don't. PRINCETON: But then- I don't know why I'm even alive! KATE MONSTER: Well, who does, really? KATE MONSTER: Everyone's a little bit unsatisfied. BRIAN:...