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Nov. 2nd, 2005 08:00 pmI've grown out of my friendslocked stage. From this point--well, actually the point that was a few weeks ago--on, what I write shall be available to all those poor souls who stumble across this page. I have nothing scandalous to write anymore, I have no personal feelings, I am a piece of peace and quiet, and an empty fishbowl--but a glass one, not plastic, so I can reflect things around me, and that's enough.
Have I mentioned nanowrimo yet? I haven't, because I'm terrified that I'm miscapitalizing it. Is it nanowrimo? Or Nanowrimo? Perhaps NaNoWriMo? Maybe I'll just call it the Thing. And capitalize Thing, because being arbitrary and making a mistake are two entirely different things.
Actually, I should be working on that right now (write now!) but I've met the day's quota, and suddenly everything seems less urgent. Also, a strategy just occurred to me, to leave a scene uncompleted from one day to another, particularly when it isn't a very fine-point oriented scene that I can figure out easily after a night of sleep. So that when I start tomorrow, I'll know what I'm doing long enough to get the ball rolling, so to speak. Starting is so hard, because as soon as you've written something, it's a commitment. Shall I be an autodefenestrating commitmentphobe? It's quite a grand title, but I'm only on the first story, and would land in the hedge outside my window. That would be a difficult one to explain away.
Leslie has authoritatively informed that, for her 18th birthday next Tuesday, we are going to buy cigarettes and go out for dinner, dressed as sluts. She tells me this as if it they require one to be 18 before allowing the purchase of fishnet stockings. Only because I love her. I don't know how many odd costumes I can wear in a month before suffering a nervous breakdown from all the strange looks.
This writing that I'm doing now, the kind that winds on and on and on, with my fingers barely pausing on the keys but not moving particularly quickly either, because I'm not really thinking nor trying to think nor trying to say anything, it's the kind of writing that I do when I'm trying not to do another kind of writing.
Namely, nanowrimo. Nanowrimo. NaNoWriMo.
Whatever. Thing.
Have I mentioned nanowrimo yet? I haven't, because I'm terrified that I'm miscapitalizing it. Is it nanowrimo? Or Nanowrimo? Perhaps NaNoWriMo? Maybe I'll just call it the Thing. And capitalize Thing, because being arbitrary and making a mistake are two entirely different things.
Actually, I should be working on that right now (write now!) but I've met the day's quota, and suddenly everything seems less urgent. Also, a strategy just occurred to me, to leave a scene uncompleted from one day to another, particularly when it isn't a very fine-point oriented scene that I can figure out easily after a night of sleep. So that when I start tomorrow, I'll know what I'm doing long enough to get the ball rolling, so to speak. Starting is so hard, because as soon as you've written something, it's a commitment. Shall I be an autodefenestrating commitmentphobe? It's quite a grand title, but I'm only on the first story, and would land in the hedge outside my window. That would be a difficult one to explain away.
Leslie has authoritatively informed that, for her 18th birthday next Tuesday, we are going to buy cigarettes and go out for dinner, dressed as sluts. She tells me this as if it they require one to be 18 before allowing the purchase of fishnet stockings. Only because I love her. I don't know how many odd costumes I can wear in a month before suffering a nervous breakdown from all the strange looks.
This writing that I'm doing now, the kind that winds on and on and on, with my fingers barely pausing on the keys but not moving particularly quickly either, because I'm not really thinking nor trying to think nor trying to say anything, it's the kind of writing that I do when I'm trying not to do another kind of writing.
Namely, nanowrimo. Nanowrimo. NaNoWriMo.
Whatever. Thing.
