Trapped.

I'm experiencing a period of creativity in which the stories are all stuck inside, quietly percolating, preparing to burst forth. But nothing's coming out willingly. It's not a dry spell; my mind is racing with images, thoughts, memories; I'm planning, plotting, scheming; I guess I'm working wet. Shaping the clay before it dries up. But does it dry up if I don't get it out in time?

Anybody out there commiserate?

I find that it is during these fiercely internal creative periods that I turn to other outward expressions of what's on the inside. I cook. Yesterday I made barbeque sauce, barbequed pork tenderloin, cabbage slaw, sweet potatoes, porridge with apricots, creamy, lemony celery soup, orange chocolate mousse. . . . this is officially the house of delicious things.

I also buy shoes. But when don't I buy shoes?

Shoes like these just seem to make everything a little bit better. Do you think they might help tease out some of those stories, if I stare at them long enough, or dance around the house in them to the right music? That is actually what I did Friday night before going to bed. I made up a new cocktail (rye+1/4 of an orange+dash of bitters+grapefruit seltzer=delicious), drank it out of my new Rosenthal bourbon glasses, and danced like there was no tomorrow. I need more of this in my life. And I can make it happen.

Now I just need to make this writing happen. Shit.