The leaves on the trees outside are yellow and rapidly falling, as I type. There was a gust of wind.

Why can’t I write? I go into bookstores and am surrounded by a dead forest’s worth of shitty, hackneyed, finished, published books. Yet I can’t finish what I think is actually a really good story.

I am probably too scared, timid, overwhelmed, and lazy. I can’t fix it.

I feel stressed out today. Thinking about the election, how I come from a country full of hardheaded, selfish morons. I don’t want to read or see any more campaign coverage anywhere — I know I am voting Democrat, nothing will sway me.

No matter the outcome, I will be in tears on election night. I hope they are tears of joy. But it’s hard to have faith when so much rests in the hands of so many bad people. And by that I mean Karl Rove, of course.

Ugh I hate even typing about this crap. Why can’t I live in a nice, progressive, socialist country? Some place that doesn’t jump at any excuse to go to war. A country that invests in education instead of oil. There are a few of those, right?

Stop.

My office is so quiet today. I want to walk outside, get a coffee someplace and sit there a while.