He wrote in his book: “CHAPTER SEVEN: The Love Scene,” and did not write anything else for the next three pages. In fact, he just sat there the rest of the night with the pencil in his hand, ready, hovering ever more pregnantly over the smooth white page, while he stared blankly out the window at the darkly shifting nightscape of tangerine-stained clouds and a stewed prune sky.
Still nothing. Still. Nothing.
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Published by hey, that tickles
blowing bubbles of giggling somethingness and why-not-itude, a creative laxative, a provocateur of visual burps and farts (ie: until the end of 2019 as design department head at the creative circus, and frequent side-hustley designer of brandy designy stuff) – but also my every-other-time-o'-day approach.
hopefully this stuff is easily sharable, lots funner than having to read a lot, and not a big investment of time.
i hope you enjoy.
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hey, that tickles 