this is bad

Lately I'm so used to keeping my shit small when I write.  You could call it discipline.  I've learned to cramp my own style very effectively.  In the name of skill and responsibility and maybe one day getting published again.  Not to have gratuitous fun. Look: clipped, straitjacket nonsentences.

Now something's gone boom and I can't get it back in the box. 

I've been sitting on 30,000 hot and crazy words for a couple of weeks, unable to tie it all together to move forward.  I keep poking it, hoping it will clean up its act.  Hoping for a cogent and exciting yet somehow also sensible and take-us-seriously silhouette to appear.  Something grown up to come walking out of the dry-ice smoke.  A book that wears a suit.  Please, book, I'm saying: help me help you.  Toe the freaking line, won't you?  No one will print you if you carry on like this.

I'm storming around my kitchen, playing loud, aggressive music, pacing up and down, shouting at the air, scrawling on flipchart paper with markers.  Got to and figure out this plot or whatever you want to call it.  Figure out these ideas.  Yes they are ideas, albeit very scruffy ones. Holes in their shoes.

Scribble scribble, tear hair, google-google...scribble...flex brain...oh, no.  I can't do THAT.  It's just...NO!  DON'T DO IT, me! 

This idea, it's so stupid and ridiculous and somehow because of that I'm drawn to it like a fridge magnet to a fridge full of crazysnakes.

What is WRONG with me????

No impulse control.  Why do I feel like Batman today.