I seem to be in a bit of a creative rut at the moment; about the most creative thing I can say I've done this week is learn how to pronounce Solzhenitsyn. Which isn't actually creative so much as it is a neat parlor trick. A little something to impress the literary kids right after Bobo the Structuralist Clown makes balloon animals in the shape of Philip Roth and right before the ouija board gets Keats on the line ("Here is one whose name is writ in TERROR YES YES YES").
I guess things might not be as bad as all that just yet--my fingers, at least, aren't physically broken, even if the will behind them is feeling somewhat densely damaged. I do have some honest to by god words written about my Dostoevsky Summer, but I'm nowhere near making a point yet, so that's still on hold just yet, and I'm a bit worried that I've shot the whole wad on a metaphor that involves the word "bling." We'll see what happens there. I've a hunch it's time to immerse myself in some writer porn, books by writers about writing, which will at least let me stall for time while I re-train my brain to respond to caffeine, or something.
Otherwise, there's stuff going on out there, none of which I have much of anything to say about. Check the sidebar for as-I-post-them links. One thing I will note is that reviews are rolling in for Jennifer Egan's new novel The Keep. Mostly I'm trying not to read them, though. I've glanced at enough paragraphs to get a feeling for the consensus, which seems somewhat mixed to cautiously optimistic; also I've read enough to know it's going to be quite different from her previous, TDAOC-approved novel, Look at Me. So color me curious.
Finally, I'll leave you with this. Seriously, 40 hits. That doesn't even make sense.
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