The Mean Story That Tripped Me Up and Two Weeks In Absentia
If I could give her a name it would be Effortless, because that’s the way she moves and speaks and that’s just the way her heart is. (Quietly Bleeding)
Well I'm feeling awfully guilty. I haven't written since my last irritated post, and I'm too scared to look at the date of the entry to see just how long it's been since I wrote anything. Two weeks, I'm guessing. Mortiftying.
I blame the story. Usually I don't get too wrapped up in my short stories, I don't get too personal - if they get finished, they get finished, if they don't, I always have another interesting idea to write about. But I was enjoying writing this one, there was no stress, it flowed. I'm not sure if it's normal, but most of my stories are labors of love, with the word labor underlined three times. I have a bad case of OCD when it comes to my writing; I curse and I splutter and I delete far more words than I write. I overanalyze sentences and give myself headaches and I brood for endless minutes over whether terrible or awful is a better choice. So while I derive great pleasure from the conceiving of an idea and the finishing of it, often the actual process of writing the thing turns me into a screeching banshee of headpounding rage. Not so for this particular story. I was preternaturally calm and in an oddly surreal state; the story seemed to unfold before my eyes, the dream-like language of the prose transformed my own surroundings into something beyond the norm, as if I'd lifted the veil of ordinaryness to expose what was underneath. I write because I'm a writer, because something inside myself demands I do and will not take no for an answer (as awfully cliche as that sounds) -- but I'm beginning to understand the fire that ignites in the eyes of some writers when they begin to talk about their passion, their eyes betray a reflection of a memory, and I'm thinking that that sensation of otherwordlyness one gets when absorbed in the writing of a story is the fanner of those flames and the emotion they recall with such intensity and fondness. This wasn't the first story I've written that has placated me so, but not by a long shot, those lucid dream-like moments are what told me from a young age that writing is what I was built to do, but since I put myself on a strict writing regime it's been far more business than pleasure for me, and I'm sure it shows. So yes, writing this particular story was a pleasure, but then I went to sleep before finishing, and the next day when I went back to it, I just couldn't get back into that dream-state, and to finish the story without 'feeling it' would, I feel, be insulting and ruin it entirely. So I've been waiting for that 'feeling' again, the sense of being on the cusp of something great and hidden, before I could fall back into the writing, and it's been two weeks now and that hasn't happened.
In less words -- I've been sulking. I could have written another story, tried to finish one of the many I have half done. But I didn't want to. I wanted to write that story and that story only. Sulking. But starting tomorrow (since I'm tired right now) I will stop being a naughty, naughty girl and lift my chin up and be a good trooper and fuckingwritesomething. No more excuses or mindless Buffy The Vampire Slayer marathons (true story)!
Okay, now that that's been established..
I've got way too many books on my currently-reading list, even more too many on my to-read list, and never enough on my already-read list. My Goodreads account serves as a constant reminder of how short life is (too many books in too few years), how much more money I could use (these things cost money you know) and how much bigger a place I need (nowhere to put the damn things as it is).
Just started/got two-thirds of the way through Orwell's 1984. I've heard so much buzz about it over the years that I finally couldn't bear the curiosity anymore and started it up (after purchasing it for a couple of dollars at a wonderful US used-book chain store 'Half Price Books', a place in which I bought literal dozens of books and managed to spend barely over $50). It's a well written book and I'm enjoying it, though it's a little dry for my taste (a reaction strongly remniscent of the one I had to Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, though I find 1984 is vastly more entertaining). The most impressive thing I've found about the book is just how widespread its reach has been - just reading through the first ten pages I recalled to mind more than a few stories I've read that clearly have been strongly influenced by the world and concept of the book, and some that were even apparently based in this universe without me having a clue. Despite me rating it about a five out of ten on the entertainment scale of things so far, this book has possibly moved me more than any other I've read to be grateful for the things I have. The quietly passionate writings about Party citizens being deprived of seemingly basic things like butter, chocolate and the ability to languish nakedly and lazily in bed with the object of your affection are extremely moving, and as I read I found myself experiencing strong cravings for the things they were deprived of, and as a result, appreciating them in an honest and genuine way I've never done before. I believe books can instill concepts on a far greater level than any other medium if done correctly, and Orwell certainly had a talent for doing it right. He has my respect.
I could go on and on about the other books I'm reading but that would probably bore you. And by you I mean no one, because I haven't had the guts to actually show anyone this blog yet, though I'm not sure why to do so seems so intimidating. Anyway, I'll probably remark on some of the other books I'm reading when I've finished them, but that's for another day.
I haven't been doing much since I last posted. I watched the last season of The Wire (great show) and seasons 3 and 4 of Buffy. Mostly the watching was a byproduct of sulking: "I can't finish my story so I'm going to lie here and stare numbly at a screen from the moment I wake up until the moment I go to sleep until I can write again". It was working well until I ran out of shows to watch. That's a good thing. Kitties have been keeping my boyfriend and me busy as usual, they like to wake us up every half hour or so (currently my boyfriend and I are on deeply opposite sleep schedules due to him being a normal person and me living my days at night, so I don't know when the cats find time to sleep). They have made friends with a neighboring cat (we found out his name was Stewie after kitten Tidus came running in with Stewie's collar in mouth about a week ago - a pretty hilarious incident I must say) and he spends a tonnn of time hanging out in our backyard, waiting for the kitties to come out and play (and he's not shy with us either, I'm glad to say). He makes me want another cat! When Dan and I buy our house, it's going to be a zoo, no doubt about it.
I also did the shoot I was whining about earlier, and unless I get offered a great opportunity, it's probably going to be the last, at least for a long long while until I get the craving again, as I inevitably will. Here are some images for your viewing pleasure, I think they came out well:
(Photos by Jackie Tran | Hair and Makeup by Lee Monaghan | Dresses by Malachi Fashion House)
My boyfriend has been extra wonderful lately and treating me like a princess. He's more supportive of my writing than I could ask for (if we were in exchanged positions I'm sure I'd do a lot of sulking about the amount of alone time he asked for). So Danny if you ever read this, I love you and appreciate you very much, thank you for everything you do <3
Apart from sulking, vegging out, reading, being spoiled and babysitting cats (and I only mention this to prevent extreme horror at the misuse of my time that is sure to come from a future reading of this post), I've been researching nightmares to give me ideas for future stories (not that I need more, I have dozens and dozens waiting to be written down already). But I figure you can never have too much imagination fodder. As a side note I've been interested in the Myers-Briggs personality types lately, it's been fascinating to read about all the types and in particular what people have to say about my type (ENFP - known sometimes as an Inspirer, or Champion Idealist). I'm a little skeptical about personality defintions such as this, as so often we can look at a description and, as long as it has lots of positive things to say, nod emphatically and agree on how great and multi-faceted a person you are and 'they got you just right'. After reading a lot of definitions, I'd have to agree with the ENFP label, though I don't conform to it as much as some others seem to (although often the majority of the description is right on the money, particularly in regards to the description of an ENFP as a 'natural advocate' - someone who feels very strongly about everything and spends most of their time and energy trying to persuade people that their point of view is the right one). Amusingly, it seems commonly accepted that an INTJ makes the best partner to an ENFP, and this happens to be my partner's personality type, so perhaps that explains why we as a couple tend to get along so much better than most we know. I'm curious to know everyone elses types now, it really is very interesting.
Well I'd better wrap this up as it's getting awful long. Call it two weeks worth of blog entries, will you?
Stay tuned for more dramatic stories of my mundane life! ;)