Writing anxieties
The anxious quality of the day cannot be denied. Firstly, I'm suffering from an increasingly nasty fever, finding myself mostly unable to cope with much of anything. Secondly, I've got to write up another Survivor episode over the course of the evening - blimey. Thirdly, musical instruments are exploding all around me. You doubt my word? It is true - my nap today was rudely interrupted by the sound of a horrific explosion. I sat up and murmured something about horrific explosions before sinking back down again exhaustedly. A few minutes passed before I remembered the horrific explosion bit, and I gradually wandered into the next room to find my sister agitatedly moaning about a bridge collapsing.
Images of five Peruvians from all walks of life being tossed suddenly into a yawning chasm danced pleasantly through my mind.
However, she soon drew my attention to the fact that it was indeed the bridge of her violin that had been blown off, which explained the strings lying everywhere and the squeaky noises and the lot. I just murmured a bit further and fiddled with my hair.
I have all sorts of ideas for stories, yet no real desire to write, which irritates me monstrously. I'd like to write some fantastical tale about Cornish smuggling, headless ghosts, a transplanted and very much alive Deacon Brodie, and a slightly anachronistic Parson Dodge, then perhaps a story about 19th Century Dutch Sumatra (naturally satirical - I mean, what else, eh?). The name "The God in the Bathing Machine" is also flitting about between my temples, but I can only think of aesthetical writers and mermaids and parsons in Victorian bathing suits and the like. Most importantly, I've got these marvellous images of a Venetian ghost story set in the '20s, in which an English lady is visited by a Naturally Rather Mysterious Man bearing a lorgnette, leading her on to witness some rather disturbing surreal shenanigans in the middle of a phantom masque.
Mmmm. Bloody fever.
Images of five Peruvians from all walks of life being tossed suddenly into a yawning chasm danced pleasantly through my mind.
However, she soon drew my attention to the fact that it was indeed the bridge of her violin that had been blown off, which explained the strings lying everywhere and the squeaky noises and the lot. I just murmured a bit further and fiddled with my hair.
I have all sorts of ideas for stories, yet no real desire to write, which irritates me monstrously. I'd like to write some fantastical tale about Cornish smuggling, headless ghosts, a transplanted and very much alive Deacon Brodie, and a slightly anachronistic Parson Dodge, then perhaps a story about 19th Century Dutch Sumatra (naturally satirical - I mean, what else, eh?). The name "The God in the Bathing Machine" is also flitting about between my temples, but I can only think of aesthetical writers and mermaids and parsons in Victorian bathing suits and the like. Most importantly, I've got these marvellous images of a Venetian ghost story set in the '20s, in which an English lady is visited by a Naturally Rather Mysterious Man bearing a lorgnette, leading her on to witness some rather disturbing surreal shenanigans in the middle of a phantom masque.
Mmmm. Bloody fever.