Welcome to the rabbit's hole. A blog on pulp.
Sometimes I just go off inventing new words. Here is one out of that immense pool: MIDSUMMER CRISIS.
When you finally invented a word in the usual course of things a question starts pushing through your subconcious mess:
What the fuck is this supposed to mean?
The averange student then makes a short grab to get the Longman’s Dictionary of contemporary English and strolls through masses of unasked information just to realize, that a newly invented word cannot already occur in a dictionary.
After doing this three or four times I started to make theories instead about what my precious products of resourcefullness could stand for.
Midsumme crisis, I thought, could be the feeling ine gets if you harmlessly wander through a midsummer’s evening, spontaniously coming aware that you’re the only one strolling around lonely. Then one would have a midsummer crisis. One would have to go to a psychatrist and do a therapy. The therapy would aim for counteracting a last-minute panic. And if the therapy would not apply, one would have to go to a self-help group and talk with all the others about one’s midsummer crisis. One would feel awfully lonely and not very relieved.
And when the autum would come, one would walk through deserted streets with all the couples at home enjoying their time together. One would prepare to become a winter spinster or a december bachelor. And somewhere around new year all the winter spinsters and december bachelors would roll together, built a cocoon to wait for the next summer.