I'm actually caught up on my reading. Had to read A Good Man is Hard to Find by Flannery O'Connor and Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson.
I'm caught in that spot between "inspired" and "give up". I have to keep reminding myself that the simplest stories can be breathtakingly beautiful, and the most painful and profound stories can be simply written.
I've written a new story. I'm afraid to look at it. I have to keep polishing an older one too, since I have to send them both in to my mentor (let's just call him Mentor, ok?) in ten days. I have already censored one story by clothing a half-naked character. Why do I do this?!
The anxiety I'm feeling is somewhat wonderful in that I haven't felt this sense of direction and ambition in a long long time. However, the odd manifestation of night-time (almost-)panic attacks is not cool. I've been a bit weird since I got home though what with 3-hour sleep intervals and jaw-clenching and a strange relationship to food. By strange, I mean I entirely forget certain food groups until I feel faint and then need to eat MEAT!!! or KALE!!! urgently. Interesting. Stay tuned for scurvy-watch 2009.
When it's all too much, I just resort to ZooBorns.com, because baby animals make everything better as long as you don't focus on their captivity, endangered status, and dwindling natural habitat!