Chumming the Tepid Waters of Creativity
T.S. Elliot, or somebody who looked a lot like him if you looked at him in a certain way, told me once that April was the cruelest month. Given the temperature the other day in New York City was ninety degrees in the shade, that the city had bypassed Spring all together for a sweltering August, I was, in that moment, almost faint and weak from thirst, inclined to agree. “By god,” I thought, “soon it’ll all be a- a-” “A wasteland”, ersatz Elliot answered, “exactly my point. Breeding lilacs and all that.” I don’t know anything about that lilacs bit, I’m a writer not a gardener. What I did know is that I was already behind in my Script Frenzy daily, weekly, and hourly quotas.
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