Writing Rant
2,394 words. I wrote, sculpted and proofed 2,294 words on Saturday.
Impressed? Don't be. I wrote them for a role-playing forum. I'm setting up the game world for other to play in. Nothing payable or publishible.
That bugs me. I console my gnawing innards with the balm of "I'm working out my writing process." I am. Starting from scratch, I'm relearning grammar. Instead of masturbating on the page, I'm masturbating, forming the spew into a child and infusing it with life. I hope. That's the idea.
I'm making sperm babies. Heh.
Fah, I have these flash, moments I believe. Dillusions that live long enough to walk through my chamber of self-doubting fire. They're only ghosts, specters, things of fluff and smoke.
I have to keep telling myself: this is going to be harder for me than others. I'm going to have to work harder, keep myself down to make myself strong enough to make it. I can't be weak. I can't be idealic or fanciful.
Mean. Snarling. Rough.
That's hard to do if I'm the least bit tired. Like now. I have more to write, but I'm so whipped that I can't even hold creative thoughts in my head. Like water, they dribble out my ears and down my back. I don't even get to see them.
A friend said I'm too hard on myself. If not me, then who will be? Time passes in a blink of an eye. I can't wait for good fortune to come find me in time. At least, I have to meet her halfway, right?
Impressed? Don't be. I wrote them for a role-playing forum. I'm setting up the game world for other to play in. Nothing payable or publishible.
That bugs me. I console my gnawing innards with the balm of "I'm working out my writing process." I am. Starting from scratch, I'm relearning grammar. Instead of masturbating on the page, I'm masturbating, forming the spew into a child and infusing it with life. I hope. That's the idea.
I'm making sperm babies. Heh.
Fah, I have these flash, moments I believe. Dillusions that live long enough to walk through my chamber of self-doubting fire. They're only ghosts, specters, things of fluff and smoke.
I have to keep telling myself: this is going to be harder for me than others. I'm going to have to work harder, keep myself down to make myself strong enough to make it. I can't be weak. I can't be idealic or fanciful.
Mean. Snarling. Rough.
That's hard to do if I'm the least bit tired. Like now. I have more to write, but I'm so whipped that I can't even hold creative thoughts in my head. Like water, they dribble out my ears and down my back. I don't even get to see them.
A friend said I'm too hard on myself. If not me, then who will be? Time passes in a blink of an eye. I can't wait for good fortune to come find me in time. At least, I have to meet her halfway, right?
posted by Mary Lewys at 7.5.06
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