if you can't give me comfort
Wordcount: 122,055
Pages: 390.
Mmm. Crossed the 120K mark which is something to note, I suppose. Haven't gotten to the plot point I want, though. And it's nearly two on a Wednesday morning and I have to go to work in about seven hours. Part of me wants to try and finish it now --- I only have two scenes to go but at least one is damned important and I need to get it right --- but most of me knows that will just fuck everything up from work to sleep to writing to everything. *sigh* As if my sleep patterns aren't already completely skewed to the rhomboid. Roll on fucking effect.
It's not that it was difficult. It's just that Cary kept bringing up something from one of their phone discussions, something I thought she was quite fine with and had let pass. But she kept picking at it and Sean kept recoiling and I was recoiling too as a woman and a writer, thinking "Jesus, why are you bringing this up? Shutupshutupshutup, what are you doing?" But I followed it because sometimes you just have to, to see what eventuated. And god, every time I thought I had defused the situation, it came back up again and finally Sean reacted with such violence to something I thought would be quite beautiful and erotic that it left me utterly shaken and almost tearful, wondering what the fuck had just happened and what was I supposed to do with it?
I nearly gave up for the day, posted my wordcount on Facebook, tried to push it mentally away and switch into non-writing mode. But with every minute away, it began to piss me off even more and I don't know, it wasn't finished. Without even thinking, any plan at all, I went back to it and yeah, it wasn't finished. The aftermath came boiling out and I was a little startled at the form, how it broke with the intense detail and went for this brutal almost summary form that makes me slightly uncomfortable as a writer --- copping out, see? I always suspect that writers who summarise are taking the easy way out --- but seemed to fit the urgency and the madness of the moment.
I kinda like it now. It's so organic. The whole damned thing just evolved so totally without plan, some sort of beautiful monster of its own making but then ha, that is the most apt way to describe this novel, isn't it? Beautiful misshapen behemoth that makes me want to bash my head against a wall because there seems like too many damned scenes one after the other, an endless procession of steps that maybe don't amount to anything. But they do, they do. I still believe they do, I have a plan, the plan is still there, being steadily painstakingly realised, including the spontaneous tangents and the unexpected evolutions, expanding to assimilate all that and still --- god, please let it be still --- controlled.
So I've got my novel playlist on even though I probably shouldn't. And Tim's cover of Wayfaring Stranger came on which I freaking adore, it's so smooth and hypnotic. And I remembered my intention to investigate it, the origins and the other versions, who actually wrote it, what's the context? I do like how my favourite musicians always lead me to other musicians, always educate me. Or maybe I just take the time to educate myself. *shrug* Either way, credit where it's due.
And then I established that I do not care for Johnny Cash's phrasing. Curious how consistent my dislike of him is. Heinous musicfan crime, I'm sure, but there you have it. *shrug* And I fucking loathe Jack White, omg. His voice! Gah! Horrible boy.
And then I found this fellow named Ed Sheeran who was just mesmerising --- as long as you didn't watch him --- and I found myself kinda hooked then snorted at the discovery he's a February Aquarian. But then it turned out his absolutely gorgeous harmonic version is a cover of Jamie Woon's version which, yeah, nails the harmonies with perfection. I can't find anything that says the vocal arrangement isn't Jamie's so I'm going with that and man, fantastic. Quite quite different from Tim's cos Tim's is more guitar based and he lets his voice slide over that.
Tip: Listen, don't watch. I find it's much more powerful that way.
And somehow that led me back to Tim, glumly cataloguing which live albums I still don't own and onto the official site where I went combing through the meagre articles section, still hoping to find that Lester Bangs' review of Starsailor. No luck but this popped out at me.
You always try to do the best you can do, right? When you run out of ideas for a particular type of song you have to move on.
*sighs heavily* It's funny how sometimes you read a quote and it pings a thought you had a few days ago, something you were latently worrying over, and then you wonder if you've taken it out of context and maybe you have but it still comforts you, still ... resonates.
I chafe quite often at the stuff I write. Like I keep writing the same thing over and over again. Sex and love, sex and struggle, sex and ego. And maybe that's my thing, maybe it's a theme I do well because it's always potent to me, always fraught with complexity and vulnerability and damnit, stuff to explore. maybe I don't do it well at all but fuckit, that's what I have to do.
Then every now and then I'll wonder: what happens when you've written all there is to write about sex? All that you can write out of your own knowledge and observation and wondering? What then?
what if you can't write anything else? if you're just that boring and one-note.
When you run out of ideas for a particular type of song you have to move on.
See what I mean? Comfort. It's small and painfully obvious but my god, it's such a thing of gratitude to see it right there, set out in print. That's what you do, dri. You move on and find something else to write. There will always be something else to write, that I firmly believe. As long as you live in the world and watch it and think about it, there will always be something to create.
I was thinking yesterday quite moodily that I am the only person I know who loves Tim Buckley. Normally I don't mind that, I'm quite happy babbling and flailing around in print so I can then go back and re-read my babblings and flailings and feel that glow of yes, I still feel that way, god it's so awesome to be into music, to find someone who satisfies you on so many levels.
But then occasionally I'll come across something that makes me want to turn to someone and grab them and scream "Omigod, listen to this! How freaking amazing is this?!" and have them scream right back "Omigod, I know!" and then we can flail around in shared joy, in shared love.
It happened on Sunday when I watched for the first time Tim perform a song I'd never heard from him before.
No words. I mean ... unh. What do you even say to such an exquisite performance? I need to share that stunned silence with someone.
It doesn't matter, does it? If you must, walk alone. It should be enough that there was someone like Tim Buckley in the world, that he was recorded and filmed, and that enough people I don't know love him enough to share those recordings and film on the Internet so I can then find them and fall in love with him all over again. It should be enough that someone fires me to this state of fevered ambition, someone makes me aspire towards a notion of artistic truth, someone pulls me onto the importance of creative evolution.
Fucking evolve. Make something. Move beyond your own little torturous mind. Create something beyond yourself and keep doing it.
I was watching this group discussion he was having with several very badly dressed people in the Seventies, quietly grateful that he looked the most timeless. (Thanks to Judy, I'm sure.) And aside from recognising that particular abstracted Aquarian light in his eyes as he put his point across, god, how I choked at the way he totally displayed the most flagrant Aquarian quality ever.
He talked over people.
*keels over, laughing* Oh god, it was so mortifying and so delightful. I watched him do it with some horror and the thought in my head was exactly that: "Oh my god, he is SO Aquarian! Oh my god."
And then I was re-reading my GoodReads review of Lee Underwood's biography and I had totally forgotten about this quote I'd copied out:
It is true, he was not a perfect person. He made mistakes, as we all do, often shredding other people's ego without mercy, especially if they combined ignorance and stupidity with arrogance. The path he trod is strewn with people who curse him as an intolerably self-centred smart-ass. He was not always a nice guy, not by any means.
Shredded, ha. Intolerably self-centred, ha. Without mercy. Fuck, ha.
Cary said to Sean a few scenes ago: "I’m so demanding, I know I am. But I just want what I want, you know? And I shouldn’t have to settle for good enough.”
In the end, that means I'm the only damned person I know who loves Tim Buckley. Aside from Tim Buckley. *snorts and collapses into giggles*
I sent a rather morose message to my cousin, apologising for the fact that I'll be breaking my promise and not emailing her tonight. Another black mark on the whiteboard of my soul. I know it means a lot more to me than it does to her, she's so forgiving of everybody anyway. And now it's gnawing at me that I probably won't have time to write until next Monday. It's never feasible to write when I come home after work, I'm too drained and not in the creative mode at all.
On the other hand, I don't have to wait til Monday. I didn't this weekend. I wrote on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. It's left me feeling like I had no weekend at all and like I've been trapped in this studio, unable to get away from this thing clawing and clamouring at me to be made real. But then that may also be because I haven't been out of Sydney since the Aunt left for Paris. *shrug* No matter, can't be helped, and there is work to go to tomorrow.
I didn't post over the weekend because I had kinda forbidden myself to until I got to my goal. And hooray for me, not. Yeah, see how it goes. I may not wait til Monday. I absolutely cannot afford to take another day off work as much as that will make all the difference, I need the money --- if only for those live albums --- and I'm not going to risk looking unreliable, precisely because my boss is so understanding. I can't take advantage of her like that.
It just ... god, it irks me!
Bah.
*goes to bed*
Upside: at least the studio is still clean and tidy-ish. That's definitely something to be pleased about. I say.
Pages: 390.
Mmm. Crossed the 120K mark which is something to note, I suppose. Haven't gotten to the plot point I want, though. And it's nearly two on a Wednesday morning and I have to go to work in about seven hours. Part of me wants to try and finish it now --- I only have two scenes to go but at least one is damned important and I need to get it right --- but most of me knows that will just fuck everything up from work to sleep to writing to everything. *sigh* As if my sleep patterns aren't already completely skewed to the rhomboid. Roll on fucking effect.
It's not that it was difficult. It's just that Cary kept bringing up something from one of their phone discussions, something I thought she was quite fine with and had let pass. But she kept picking at it and Sean kept recoiling and I was recoiling too as a woman and a writer, thinking "Jesus, why are you bringing this up? Shutupshutupshutup, what are you doing?" But I followed it because sometimes you just have to, to see what eventuated. And god, every time I thought I had defused the situation, it came back up again and finally Sean reacted with such violence to something I thought would be quite beautiful and erotic that it left me utterly shaken and almost tearful, wondering what the fuck had just happened and what was I supposed to do with it?
I nearly gave up for the day, posted my wordcount on Facebook, tried to push it mentally away and switch into non-writing mode. But with every minute away, it began to piss me off even more and I don't know, it wasn't finished. Without even thinking, any plan at all, I went back to it and yeah, it wasn't finished. The aftermath came boiling out and I was a little startled at the form, how it broke with the intense detail and went for this brutal almost summary form that makes me slightly uncomfortable as a writer --- copping out, see? I always suspect that writers who summarise are taking the easy way out --- but seemed to fit the urgency and the madness of the moment.
I kinda like it now. It's so organic. The whole damned thing just evolved so totally without plan, some sort of beautiful monster of its own making but then ha, that is the most apt way to describe this novel, isn't it? Beautiful misshapen behemoth that makes me want to bash my head against a wall because there seems like too many damned scenes one after the other, an endless procession of steps that maybe don't amount to anything. But they do, they do. I still believe they do, I have a plan, the plan is still there, being steadily painstakingly realised, including the spontaneous tangents and the unexpected evolutions, expanding to assimilate all that and still --- god, please let it be still --- controlled.
So I've got my novel playlist on even though I probably shouldn't. And Tim's cover of Wayfaring Stranger came on which I freaking adore, it's so smooth and hypnotic. And I remembered my intention to investigate it, the origins and the other versions, who actually wrote it, what's the context? I do like how my favourite musicians always lead me to other musicians, always educate me. Or maybe I just take the time to educate myself. *shrug* Either way, credit where it's due.
Click to viewAnd then I established that I do not care for Johnny Cash's phrasing. Curious how consistent my dislike of him is. Heinous musicfan crime, I'm sure, but there you have it. *shrug* And I fucking loathe Jack White, omg. His voice! Gah! Horrible boy.
And then I found this fellow named Ed Sheeran who was just mesmerising --- as long as you didn't watch him --- and I found myself kinda hooked then snorted at the discovery he's a February Aquarian. But then it turned out his absolutely gorgeous harmonic version is a cover of Jamie Woon's version which, yeah, nails the harmonies with perfection. I can't find anything that says the vocal arrangement isn't Jamie's so I'm going with that and man, fantastic. Quite quite different from Tim's cos Tim's is more guitar based and he lets his voice slide over that.
Tip: Listen, don't watch. I find it's much more powerful that way.
And somehow that led me back to Tim, glumly cataloguing which live albums I still don't own and onto the official site where I went combing through the meagre articles section, still hoping to find that Lester Bangs' review of Starsailor. No luck but this popped out at me.
You always try to do the best you can do, right? When you run out of ideas for a particular type of song you have to move on.
*sighs heavily* It's funny how sometimes you read a quote and it pings a thought you had a few days ago, something you were latently worrying over, and then you wonder if you've taken it out of context and maybe you have but it still comforts you, still ... resonates.
I chafe quite often at the stuff I write. Like I keep writing the same thing over and over again. Sex and love, sex and struggle, sex and ego. And maybe that's my thing, maybe it's a theme I do well because it's always potent to me, always fraught with complexity and vulnerability and damnit, stuff to explore. maybe I don't do it well at all but fuckit, that's what I have to do.
Then every now and then I'll wonder: what happens when you've written all there is to write about sex? All that you can write out of your own knowledge and observation and wondering? What then?
what if you can't write anything else? if you're just that boring and one-note.
When you run out of ideas for a particular type of song you have to move on.
See what I mean? Comfort. It's small and painfully obvious but my god, it's such a thing of gratitude to see it right there, set out in print. That's what you do, dri. You move on and find something else to write. There will always be something else to write, that I firmly believe. As long as you live in the world and watch it and think about it, there will always be something to create.
I was thinking yesterday quite moodily that I am the only person I know who loves Tim Buckley. Normally I don't mind that, I'm quite happy babbling and flailing around in print so I can then go back and re-read my babblings and flailings and feel that glow of yes, I still feel that way, god it's so awesome to be into music, to find someone who satisfies you on so many levels.
But then occasionally I'll come across something that makes me want to turn to someone and grab them and scream "Omigod, listen to this! How freaking amazing is this?!" and have them scream right back "Omigod, I know!" and then we can flail around in shared joy, in shared love.
It happened on Sunday when I watched for the first time Tim perform a song I'd never heard from him before.
No words. I mean ... unh. What do you even say to such an exquisite performance? I need to share that stunned silence with someone.
It doesn't matter, does it? If you must, walk alone. It should be enough that there was someone like Tim Buckley in the world, that he was recorded and filmed, and that enough people I don't know love him enough to share those recordings and film on the Internet so I can then find them and fall in love with him all over again. It should be enough that someone fires me to this state of fevered ambition, someone makes me aspire towards a notion of artistic truth, someone pulls me onto the importance of creative evolution.
Fucking evolve. Make something. Move beyond your own little torturous mind. Create something beyond yourself and keep doing it.
I was watching this group discussion he was having with several very badly dressed people in the Seventies, quietly grateful that he looked the most timeless. (Thanks to Judy, I'm sure.) And aside from recognising that particular abstracted Aquarian light in his eyes as he put his point across, god, how I choked at the way he totally displayed the most flagrant Aquarian quality ever.
He talked over people.
*keels over, laughing* Oh god, it was so mortifying and so delightful. I watched him do it with some horror and the thought in my head was exactly that: "Oh my god, he is SO Aquarian! Oh my god."
And then I was re-reading my GoodReads review of Lee Underwood's biography and I had totally forgotten about this quote I'd copied out:
It is true, he was not a perfect person. He made mistakes, as we all do, often shredding other people's ego without mercy, especially if they combined ignorance and stupidity with arrogance. The path he trod is strewn with people who curse him as an intolerably self-centred smart-ass. He was not always a nice guy, not by any means.
Shredded, ha. Intolerably self-centred, ha. Without mercy. Fuck, ha.
Cary said to Sean a few scenes ago: "I’m so demanding, I know I am. But I just want what I want, you know? And I shouldn’t have to settle for good enough.”
In the end, that means I'm the only damned person I know who loves Tim Buckley. Aside from Tim Buckley. *snorts and collapses into giggles*
I sent a rather morose message to my cousin, apologising for the fact that I'll be breaking my promise and not emailing her tonight. Another black mark on the whiteboard of my soul. I know it means a lot more to me than it does to her, she's so forgiving of everybody anyway. And now it's gnawing at me that I probably won't have time to write until next Monday. It's never feasible to write when I come home after work, I'm too drained and not in the creative mode at all.
On the other hand, I don't have to wait til Monday. I didn't this weekend. I wrote on Sunday, Monday and Tuesday. It's left me feeling like I had no weekend at all and like I've been trapped in this studio, unable to get away from this thing clawing and clamouring at me to be made real. But then that may also be because I haven't been out of Sydney since the Aunt left for Paris. *shrug* No matter, can't be helped, and there is work to go to tomorrow.
I didn't post over the weekend because I had kinda forbidden myself to until I got to my goal. And hooray for me, not. Yeah, see how it goes. I may not wait til Monday. I absolutely cannot afford to take another day off work as much as that will make all the difference, I need the money --- if only for those live albums --- and I'm not going to risk looking unreliable, precisely because my boss is so understanding. I can't take advantage of her like that.
It just ... god, it irks me!
Bah.
*goes to bed*
Upside: at least the studio is still clean and tidy-ish. That's definitely something to be pleased about. I say.