Searching for words costs me hours daily. Today, for some apparent reason, I had my first choate idea in weeks:
Write "gruntled" and move along. I abused myself of the notion that placeholder words work fine. Thanks to my inelegant new nomers, searching for words became a tame goose chase. I sat there at my desk, my clothes shevelled, my hair kempt and in a state of utter array. I was completely capacitated even if my prose wasn't fully-baked. Writing became a bominable task.
I was off the lam. When I advertently saw my advisor, I wore a short face and he gave me the warm shoulder. He told me I've spent my time to much avail. "You've finally brought a gun to the gunfight," he said. It was concerting.
I returned home and stopped working at a godly hour. And now that I look at it again, what I've written is really quite trocious. I'm at my wit's beginning now that I've bitten off only as much as I can chew. This really was an easy nut to crack once I woke up those sleeping dogs.
[I blame this book for this post. Handler has a quietly self-conscious style which makes the world of words a strange place. Hence tonight's offering.]