(no subject)
For the first time in over a year, words in my head kept me up at night. Hell, that I got words in my head at all, period. As long as I can remember, I'd visualize and verbalize/narrate scenes in my head. Sometimes it's a writing thing, and sometimes it's just an imagination/fantasy thing. It's been quiet for over a year now though, which... I don't know. I don't want to call it an existential crisis, but considering how big writing has been a part of my life, it's very strange to have no desire to write. That constant mumblemumble of words is silent.
The scene was a White Collar thing, sprang from my whole "Burke's Seven" AU spec. The words came with difficulty, like I couldn't piece together a good sentence to save my life, but some of that old feeling returned, especially the whole "really fucking annoyed that this shit is keeping me from sleeping" part, haha. Once I woke up, though, the mumblemumble is gone.
I don't know if I want to try and write when there's no motivation or inspiration. Not that I don't have ideas, because clearly I do, but there isn't a compelling urge to write them down. I'm having a hard time just imagining things. I used to play around with situations and concepts in my head all the time, but now it's like an epic failure of imagination. Every time I try, it's like I get lazy or, worse, I get a case of stopthink, which is as fucked up as it sounds.
I have two spectacular ideas in my head, one for White Collar and one for Legend of the Seeker, and they're just lying there. Not to mention that 294728934 fics I abandoned from over a year ago. Well, okay, more like 3. There were at least three Pinto fics I really would've wanted to finish. But sometimes I read back on what I wrote, and it's like I'm reading somebody else's fic. There is a weird detachment, a disconnect. Like, wow, I actually wrote this?
In a totally bizarre way, baking seems to have taken up the void left by writing. It makes sense. It's sort of a creative endeavor, the finished product meant to be shared with others. It's a finite activity, which is a very pleasant aspect. I may have 239482394 unfinished fics, but it's not like I'm going to have a hunk of dough in my fridge forever that I just don't know what to do with. But it's a limited number of people to whom I can give baked goods. Fic is transcendent of that, not to mention it's got no expiry date.
In the end, idk about writing, but I do miss my imagination.
The scene was a White Collar thing, sprang from my whole "Burke's Seven" AU spec. The words came with difficulty, like I couldn't piece together a good sentence to save my life, but some of that old feeling returned, especially the whole "really fucking annoyed that this shit is keeping me from sleeping" part, haha. Once I woke up, though, the mumblemumble is gone.
I don't know if I want to try and write when there's no motivation or inspiration. Not that I don't have ideas, because clearly I do, but there isn't a compelling urge to write them down. I'm having a hard time just imagining things. I used to play around with situations and concepts in my head all the time, but now it's like an epic failure of imagination. Every time I try, it's like I get lazy or, worse, I get a case of stopthink, which is as fucked up as it sounds.
I have two spectacular ideas in my head, one for White Collar and one for Legend of the Seeker, and they're just lying there. Not to mention that 294728934 fics I abandoned from over a year ago. Well, okay, more like 3. There were at least three Pinto fics I really would've wanted to finish. But sometimes I read back on what I wrote, and it's like I'm reading somebody else's fic. There is a weird detachment, a disconnect. Like, wow, I actually wrote this?
In a totally bizarre way, baking seems to have taken up the void left by writing. It makes sense. It's sort of a creative endeavor, the finished product meant to be shared with others. It's a finite activity, which is a very pleasant aspect. I may have 239482394 unfinished fics, but it's not like I'm going to have a hunk of dough in my fridge forever that I just don't know what to do with. But it's a limited number of people to whom I can give baked goods. Fic is transcendent of that, not to mention it's got no expiry date.
In the end, idk about writing, but I do miss my imagination.