Ever since I started rereading The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, I've fallen into some sort of haze that consists of staying in bed for as long as possible, eating Spagettio's, and filling out Myspace surveys. A pretty pathetic existance. I'm used to writing intricate poems and essays all the time, but lately the most creative I've gotten with words is by sending text messages to my best friend about Project Runway.
So what gives?
Well, I'm not Sylvia Plath, for one. All other writers' work inspires me to write, but for some reason Sylvia Plath's work makes me want to curl up under a rock. And I suppose that is a sign of a really powerful writer, that she can transport the reader to her personal hell. What am I gonna do, transport my best friend into the mindset of Heidi Klum as she judges a haute couture trench coat? Through text messages? Nobody could ever convey an emotion as convincingly as Sylvia Plath. And so I guess I am trying to rid myself of emotions through bland, mind-numbing activities so that I never have to compete with her ghost.
Christian Siriano from Project Runway: The source of my poetic inspiration
Which is ridiculous, really. There are plenty of good writers that aren't, well, insane. And I've written plenty of good poems that weren't drenched in emotion or psychosis. But for now, I'll stick to my Myspace bulletins and silly blogs. Because, well...I'm lazy.
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