Feel so strange. Have been reading old diaries and then journals. Don’t know what to say about them. They sound just like me now. The questions and the answers from the past are surprisingly similar to my questions and answers now. But they sound so radical. They sound so black. That girl would never . . . I mean never . . . have married a white dude. She would never have kissed a white man. She would never have fucked a white man. She was so, so correct. Little Miss Perfect, the woman who does everything right and with determination, even run the revolution. It makes me feel weird though. To read it now.
I wonder why I always find jobs that make it necessary for me to get up before noon. Don’t know. I am blocking in my writing. Haven’t done anything serious since we left to go to Martinique, which was several weeks ago. I don’t know why. Ma, I guess. And the movie coming through and just tired. Just drained. I don’t know. I am so intimidated by the novel. It is so much in my mind, but I can’t get it on paper. And I am not quite sure why. Scared it won’t be good, I guess. Scared I will get rejected with it. Scared I can’t finish it, even if I do try and work on it and stuff. How about those page quotas? How about ten pages a day? How about five? How about two? You just ain’t even tryin’ anymore. That is the truth.
I am also convinced that I have cancer. God. I don’t know. I really don’t know. Where am I?