So, here I am, almost two-thirds of the way through this here writer's workshop in Prague--nearly halfway through the second half with Patricia Hampl. She's good, she's very good. I had my workshop yesterday, and I got some good stuff. But honestly, I'm feeling a little directionless. Like it's time to remove myself from everyone else's babble and return to what it is that I do: write. Reclaim this book, this project from everyone else's clutches. It's good to hear what readers have to say about what I've got down, but then there comes a time to forget about all those bitches altogether and just fucking write. The story is mine, the aesthetic is mine. I need some distance to remember what it is I'm up to.
And I'm tired. You know? Just worn the hell out. I could spa my way through Eastern Europe, but that would get old and overly self-indulgent quick. I think what I need is to rent a humble villa on the sea, perhaps in Dalmatia to swim, lollygag, and write. Away from the grind. Even the beautiful grind in Prague.
Because the beauty has gotten to be a bit much. I can't stand it. I think the art and architecture is sapping my magic or something. Weird, I know. But I've been dreaming of slaughtered elephants, and whenever I dream about dead and dying majestic creatures, it means I'm losing my largesse. I need rejuvenation.
So, does anyone have a grandmother or know someone with a room to rent on the Adriatic Sea? Got any other good ideas?
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