i came across a french blog while stalking someone earlier, which led to some thoughts. one, i've been liking french writing a lot lately, which seems, i don't know, obvious in retrospect. it's like, of course, there are talented people in that language the same as there are in english, i can understand it, too, but i have this whole blind spot for it so, i don't know, everything seems fresh and exciting and exotic and the more so when it's fresh and exciting and exotic writing to begin with. and it was just this shock to my system, like, fuck, why aren't i writing things like this? what the fuck is wrong with me? it was so daunting. not, "i can't write like this," or "i can't write this well" but "i am too much of a lazy bastard coward to do something like this." it's just a question of a groove you get yourself into. and i haven't gotten myself into any good grooves lately, it feels like. i talked to a guy at work yesterday, the guy that i once falsely accused of stealing porn mags. he asked me how the writing was going and i told him i'd hit a bit of a rough patch. he asked why and i told him i didn't know, because that seemed easier than listing all the things i thought probably were holding me back/slowing me down and also because it would expose less of my soft underbelly etc etc. i tried to spin the problem of being a writer whose material isn't coming as something funny, i.e. interesting to people who don't ultimately care about writing, which i assume is this guy, regardless of his continued interest in my writing career. things like that tend to be more about the relationship between you and the stranger than the relationship between the stranger and the act of writing. at least that's the sense that i get in this case. so i compared myself to a farmer waiting for rain to come. in retrospect i think that's kind of ridiculous. but you know.