(Untitled)

[aliquisa]

Laura looks from her blank white screen and blinking cursor to her motionless fingertips to the four pound tub of red licorice on her desk, and thinks of the improbability of having lost her mind for real this time

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[aliquisa]

I find it charming when people assume that making art is easy. That it doesn't require every bit as much determination and dedication as anything else. That people think that just because we love it doesn't mean it isn't really hard sometimes. Books don't drift from the sky on a shaft of golden light, fully written and profound, unquestionably beautiful and full of Truth. People write them. And then they stop. And then they force themselves to start again. And then they get to the climax and realize they screwed up chapter two, and when they fix chapter two, continuity is off and they have to edit out an entire subplot that had set off one of the deeper elements, thematically speaking. And then they realize exactly what will fix everything, decide to do it in the morning, and forget by dawn. And then they maybe finish. Then they edit. Again and again, until they hate the story and wonder why they wrote it to begin with, questioning everything from 'Is anybody even going to want to read this?' to 'Maybe I should have become the CEO of a major corporation. There's still time to change my mind..."

Sigh.

Sleepy sigh.

May the gnomes appear while you dream.