there's a path that leads
*sigh* Don't want to go to work today. It's all chill and grey today, the sunshine trapped in the silver air, and I want to huddle under the warm quilts and read some of my Pamela Travers' What The Bee Knows, then alternate with Regarding 'Jane Eyre', and go back to writing my own novel.
I'm only sixteen pages into Travers and already I keep thinking "Really, why am I reading this? Why did she feel the need to write this? Why doesn't she just tell people to go read Joseph Campbell?" I mean, I love reading about myth and symbolism and universal archetypes but really she's not telling me anything I don't already know, anything Campbell hasn't already told me in much more interesting fashion and then Patrick Harpur's developed in even more interesting ways. But I should persist, it's only page 16 and the first essay is about the hero. Maybe the others will be more insightful.
Spent the last two days listening to all my other music, although you prolly wouldn't be able to tell from the last post. Because Last.FM is refusing to scrobble my iPod so my stats are completely misrepresenting the reality and that's shitting me no end so I tried to rehaul the whole way my iPod works. As a result, I went through my whole iTunes library and put so much more music on there, music that's been playing for the past two days.
On a silvery grey day like this, I had to go back to Active Child. Such a strange dream last night. I was having this long involved discussion with waitingman about music and he sang me a bit of Hanging Up and the world was ending. Why do I always have these apocalyptic dreams? The world is always coming to an end in my subconscious. What the fuck is that about?! *boggled*
Means I am generally a histrionic pessimistic person. Fatalistic. Ha! Yes, that's why I write. *rolls eyes* Ludicrous brain.
I can't wait to go back to the novel. It's sizzling away there, all reinvigorated and new and slightly dangerous, spitting a little hot oil, and I want to know what happens next, I want to see it happen and how they negotiate it together. What Sean's going to come out with next. He has surprised me a little lately, yeah, just certain things he's said and thought.
I've lived the inner life of a writer so long it's a sudden lancing irritation when some clueless civilian tries to mock me for it. I don't even feel judged, it's more like "Why are you wasting my time by saying something so patently stupid and obvious? Don't you know anything? Bugger off with your ignorance, I've got more interesting and important things to focus on."
I really should shut up and go to work. And eat, probably. I wish I was and wasn't going home for the weekend. On one hand, it would be good to have the opportunity to dive back into the novel and get a head start on the next few scenes. On the other hand, food and company and warmth.
I'm only sixteen pages into Travers and already I keep thinking "Really, why am I reading this? Why did she feel the need to write this? Why doesn't she just tell people to go read Joseph Campbell?" I mean, I love reading about myth and symbolism and universal archetypes but really she's not telling me anything I don't already know, anything Campbell hasn't already told me in much more interesting fashion and then Patrick Harpur's developed in even more interesting ways. But I should persist, it's only page 16 and the first essay is about the hero. Maybe the others will be more insightful.
Spent the last two days listening to all my other music, although you prolly wouldn't be able to tell from the last post. Because Last.FM is refusing to scrobble my iPod so my stats are completely misrepresenting the reality and that's shitting me no end so I tried to rehaul the whole way my iPod works. As a result, I went through my whole iTunes library and put so much more music on there, music that's been playing for the past two days.
On a silvery grey day like this, I had to go back to Active Child. Such a strange dream last night. I was having this long involved discussion with waitingman about music and he sang me a bit of Hanging Up and the world was ending. Why do I always have these apocalyptic dreams? The world is always coming to an end in my subconscious. What the fuck is that about?! *boggled*
Means I am generally a histrionic pessimistic person. Fatalistic. Ha! Yes, that's why I write. *rolls eyes* Ludicrous brain.
I can't wait to go back to the novel. It's sizzling away there, all reinvigorated and new and slightly dangerous, spitting a little hot oil, and I want to know what happens next, I want to see it happen and how they negotiate it together. What Sean's going to come out with next. He has surprised me a little lately, yeah, just certain things he's said and thought.
I've lived the inner life of a writer so long it's a sudden lancing irritation when some clueless civilian tries to mock me for it. I don't even feel judged, it's more like "Why are you wasting my time by saying something so patently stupid and obvious? Don't you know anything? Bugger off with your ignorance, I've got more interesting and important things to focus on."
I really should shut up and go to work. And eat, probably. I wish I was and wasn't going home for the weekend. On one hand, it would be good to have the opportunity to dive back into the novel and get a head start on the next few scenes. On the other hand, food and company and warmth.