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Quite possibly the only thing more ridiculous than how long this journal has languished is the fact that I'm writing in it now to avoid... writing.
I've had a writing bug as of late, that is, the urge to write, which is an unproductive nagging sensation when nothing specific inspires a story. I listen to Rey complain of the backlog of art ideas that she can never hope to complete in a lifetime, and sigh. I write when the ideas form, or not at all. My brain sits dry for months or even years. Then, too, there are ideas that seem valid enough in themselves yet still I find myself unable to quite push out the words. There is a piece of fan fiction sitting about from last summer, and it is set in the full sweltering heat of summer. That quality plays an important role in the story. At the very least I'd like to have it finished when that time of year rolls around again, but after weeks of being repeatedly buried in snow, I find it simply too difficult to focus on. The awareness of my present surroundings creeps in and I sit staring at the plot cards I've written with my hands tucked under my arms to keep my fingers from freezing. What I needed, I thought, was a story more in keeping with the feel of the present. I've laboured and prodded and hammered an idea into shape, not as complex nor as fully formed as the other, but an idea all the same. I've worked out the scene on which the story opens, and yet I still can't seem to summon up those first few words.
I want to write, and yet I sit here eying the clock like an anxious school child, waiting for the inevitable choir practice this evening to save me from staring fruitlessly at a blank page.
It does not help matters that Bridgielove has put an entirely new word-processing program on the computer, which is a muddled menu of meaningless images rather than the familiar word commands. Bloody hells. Now I feel old and grouchy as well as unproductive.
I've had a writing bug as of late, that is, the urge to write, which is an unproductive nagging sensation when nothing specific inspires a story. I listen to Rey complain of the backlog of art ideas that she can never hope to complete in a lifetime, and sigh. I write when the ideas form, or not at all. My brain sits dry for months or even years. Then, too, there are ideas that seem valid enough in themselves yet still I find myself unable to quite push out the words. There is a piece of fan fiction sitting about from last summer, and it is set in the full sweltering heat of summer. That quality plays an important role in the story. At the very least I'd like to have it finished when that time of year rolls around again, but after weeks of being repeatedly buried in snow, I find it simply too difficult to focus on. The awareness of my present surroundings creeps in and I sit staring at the plot cards I've written with my hands tucked under my arms to keep my fingers from freezing. What I needed, I thought, was a story more in keeping with the feel of the present. I've laboured and prodded and hammered an idea into shape, not as complex nor as fully formed as the other, but an idea all the same. I've worked out the scene on which the story opens, and yet I still can't seem to summon up those first few words.
I want to write, and yet I sit here eying the clock like an anxious school child, waiting for the inevitable choir practice this evening to save me from staring fruitlessly at a blank page.
It does not help matters that Bridgielove has put an entirely new word-processing program on the computer, which is a muddled menu of meaningless images rather than the familiar word commands. Bloody hells. Now I feel old and grouchy as well as unproductive.
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Date: 2010-02-12 03:15 am (UTC)From:I hate it when my writing is like that. You want to, but you can't, because it's being annoying and stuff and it won't happen. Going out is at least enough of a distraction to take your mind off it, and maybe enough to get something to happen writing-wise.
no subject
Date: 2010-02-12 04:06 am (UTC)From:I went for a walk, and spent a great deal of time doing research about this and that to get the gears spinning, but I never did write a word of the story I've got in mind, and now Bridgielove is talking about bed. Tomorrow, I suppose, is another day.
no subject
Date: 2010-02-12 04:24 am (UTC)From:Walks are good, but right now I'm too scared to risk one. Snow and all.
no subject
Date: 2010-02-12 07:03 am (UTC)From:It's risky, but the worst part is simply having to watch out for cars because I'm further into the road. I've been keeping to the back neighbourhood streets, because they're quiet and the sidewalks are impossible Himalayan ridges on the main road.