Brain Hurts

When I was in Russia I had a regular problem of artist overload. I would hide in my room and listen to David Sedaris on This American Life online. I would read whatever artless smut I could get my hands on, anything to have a few seconds to get out of my head. We artists, we are a heady bunch, constantly thinking, debating, speculating on life. It never ceases to amaze me that some artists don't ever seem to tire of all that introspection.

The challenge with trying to crank out a book about love and relationships in a month is that it requires a whole lot of deep thinking. And this isn't even that kind of book. This is a book that makes fun of my inability to engage in a civilized conversation without swear words, my complete and utter lack of filter and tendency to self-destruct every time a decent guy enters my life. It is just this side of porn. I kid Mom, promise...sort of.

My brain hurts. I am tired. I just want to be done with this damn thing and yet, I cannot handle marathon evenings of beers and musical debates with my other comrades in arms. I do not have enough brain cells left. And seriously, do I strike you as a girl who knows shit about Zepplin?

So back to work I go. Editing, tightening up, killing sections, adding more. Next time I get a bright idea to try to write a book in a month, someone hand me a beer and point me towards some reality tv.