“God, what the fuck, you don’t know anything,” is what my critic would first say, stepping down onto a bed of clovers before I could even look or count to three. Seductively charming in that Stockholm Syndrome kind of way, he stays inside the house, wondering about what next way things are most likely to go poorly and be too much work. Afraid, shy, angry, fretting, confused about his own demands; he wants to be comfortable but is always complaining about the dim weight of it all, like an overweight vampire, tithed to darkness.
“The people who have power over you, did you know we are allies? And they just think that your stuff is silly, a waste of time. A waste of time and too emotional, and too obvious. Fluffy and weak, too.”
I don’t know exactly how I let him get so full and cranky and fearful while drawing all of the blood from ideas before I have a chance to fall in love with them. He’s always thirsting but never doing any of the work of turning something into anything.