the problem with boy geniuses is they can be it all & still not be the one thing you need

This it what happens: 

I think I cannot write my book.

No -- not that I cannot. But that it's nonsense. What I'm writing. What I'm trying to do. At least in the moment. Maybe after a few other moments I will be... better?

I pick up Eugenides' Middlesex. There is a big gold sticker on the front announcing it has won the Pulitzer Prize. On the back there are blurbs of praise for The Virgin Suicides. The film Sofia Coppola made... I immediately think. 

Open the book.

The chapter titles are intriguing: "Tricknology" (Oooh... I could not have thought of "tricknology") "Clarinet Serenade" & a couple others that sound like faux Latin. All divided into sections: Book One. Book Two. (So simple! So smart!)

Start the first chapter.

It is not my character speaking. Not when I skim the first few pages. Nor when I cut to the middle hoping some sentence will grab me. Compel me to immerse myself in this Pulitzer prize winning perspective.

I close the book. 

What I read on those pages was irritation -- that someone else has not written what I want to write -- enough to re-resign that doubt is, as always, irrelevant. Coming to "the end" will only feel like downing the draught at the bottom of a refreshing drink if I keep jotting words till I've penned "la fin."