Blah, Blah, Blah

I have the writing blahs. Maybe because it's freaking February. Maybe because I'm writing a synopsis and no fiction. Feel like I would have trouble putting a decent sentence together, never mind a scene or a whole plot.

We're planning a May trip to Southern CA to research the 1928 California suspense book (so far nomless) and I am worried that I can't come up with a plot or the writing will be stale as last week's bagels. Worry worry worry.

I am re-reading Proust and realizing how good he is, how very very good and that no matter what I can never write 1/100 as well as Proust.

Feel like a drudge, a drone, a dromedary kind of beast of burden. Someone without a thread of scintillation. Boring. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Isn't this where we came in? Maybe it's winter.

The birds are pairing up. Today it was the house finches. Yesterday it was the wrens. Got to get them birdhouses up in the woods. So spring must be somewhere around the corner. Ice is melting. Maybe I need to get seriously drunk.
Or stop wallowing in self-pity.

Right now I'm making marble brownies, which didn't want to swirl, no way, no how.

Lhude sing cuckoo! Just took the brownies (cream cheese/dark chocolate swirl) out of the oven and they look, well, delicious.

Grapeshot