KZ Writes Good
The internet is a huge bathroom wall, and any halfwit with a keyboard and a connection has an opportunity to scrawl on it. Take me, for instance. My name is KZ. For a good time, come find me at Prosaic Shades of Gray.
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Inside Thoughts
December 7, 2010 // 22 Comments -
"Abbott & Costello" Ain't Got Nothing on "Dawn & KZ"
October 8, 2010 // 20 Comments -
Songs for Sale
March 8, 2003 // 17 Comments -
Winning Without Trying
November 3, 2010 // 16 Comments -
Casanova KZ
December 3, 2008 // 13 Comments
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At the Risk of Drawing Attention to Myself...
May 7, 2012 // 2 Comments -
The Answer (Conversation with God Continued)
April 20, 2012 // 2 Comments -
Weapons of Jazz Destruction
March 20, 2012 // 6 Comments -
Good Night, Gentle Dreamers
March 14, 2012 // 3 Comments -
The Conundrum of Human Empathy
March 12, 2012 // 3 Comments
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May 12, 2012
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Everything everybody does can be considered mundan ...
May 11, 2012 -
My avatar sure is creepy looking.
May 8, 2012 -
It seems ironic that you think this piece has neve ...
May 8, 2012 -
Since you insist. Killjoy. Grump. God, it f ...
May 7, 2012
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I Blame Momo
Writer’s block is a bitch — but you already knew that.
Sometimes when I sit down to write, I end up sitting still for long stretches of time, hovering a pen over an empty page while I sort out my thoughts. More often than not, the words just never seem to come. It’s always during these moments when I’ve reached the most agonizing depths of writer’s block that my cat, Momo, will sit down to watch me write. Without having to look up, I’ll feel his gaze. It’s hard to ignore those wide, golden eyes piercing the back of your shoulder.
For as long as I remain still, Momo’s gaze never wavers. He stays fixed to his spot, forever vigilant, ever watchful of my desperation, my creative stupor. Momo is the fiery sentinel who guards the unwritten word, the gatekeeper of clarity and literary madness.
Momo will stare at me perplexedly with his limited understanding, asking me in that silent way of his, “You could be doing anything with your free time right now, so why are you sitting still?” Most of the time, I’m not even sure of the answer myself. Am I a writer, or aren’t I? Why does writing have to be such an unnatural, labored act for me? How can I be a novelist if I lack the discipline to write on command, or to update a blog on a regular basis?
Then my attention drifts to other questions. What is the point of writing, in the end? How far removed is the desire to be heard from the crassness of vanity? Why am I doomed to serve this agonizing compulsion to express a collection of thoughts that I never seem to have at my command?
Sure, Momo never intended to thrust my thoughts into a spiral of introspection and self-doubt, and yet he takes me there with that curious little stare. How can I write with that furry little inquisitor judging me so passive aggressively, posing those debilitating questions through his muffled, unspoken meows?
Momo has a staring problem.
That picture is intense. Those are eyes that judge you!
You love Momo...I think you just like to have him staring at you.
I love the picture of Momo looking at himself on the screen! My cat likes to lay on my desk too.