In which I spew words just to spew words

Trying this downstair today. Not much to say- I feel pretty brain dead. But spew, spew, words. If I can keep the words coming, that's really all that matters. I don't care right now what words they are, even. I could sing of the color blue or ecru, I could try to block the sound of Yu-gi-oh from my ears, I can wonder why kids can keep up an endless stream of inventiveness that I just do not seem to have any more. Is that because kids avoid the self-censor for the most part? I don't know, I just know that words must flow, every day, or I'll never get them to flow. In Haroun and the Sea of Stories, the storyteller is hooked up to a faucet from which story ideas flow all the time. I could use one of those. So here I'm asking to be hooked up to this faucet. I think the words will matter in the end, though I hope these particular ones don't. I am just chattering to fill up space today, yes, and I think I have nothing to say. But the Artist's Way says it's ok to say you have nothing to say, even if you say it for three pages (or fifteen minutes as the case may be). I guess there is a lot a could say about how hard the day was, particularly the bit between work and dinner, but I don't know, I've said that to others, and it doesn't really bear repeating, and besides, it's all over now. So let the stream of consciousness flow. Hey, it worked for James Joyce.

The key, I think, is just momementum. If I can get stuff down on a regular basis, without thinking too much about anything other than getting words out of my head an onto paper, then maybe I'll be able to write regularly even though I don't think I have the time, energy, inspiration, whatever the excuse of the day may be. It's only fifteen minutes, after all. I can do fifteen minutes of writing that I don't self-censor, can't I? And once this is the habit, it will be, well, the habit. And I will get words and words down. And then I can go back and make the words into the story they were meant to be. But if the words get stuck in perfection and excuses, well, that doesn't do me much good, does it? I really want this to work, you see. I really want to be able to churn out book after book like Stephen King. I'd prefer they be good books, and well written, but that can come after they are books. I need to work past the "concept" stage and just get what needs to be said out. If I can do this, I can, I hope, do that too.

And so I plow on, no straight furrows today, just words because I need to keep pushing hard to get them out. I felt I ran out of things to say before I started. As you can probably tell. And now everyone walks in, and I have to stop, unless I can squeeze my last two minutes out of it. Or not. Too many pulls... Maybe more about that tomorrow. Or maybe not.