I'm a title!
You know what they say about animals knowing when you're sick might be true. Take the case of Picabu (Pronounced Peek-a-boo, we'd decided on an unortodox name and spelling for this cat). If she is in my bed when I climb in, she leaves. She doesn't like to share, I think, cause I toss and turn too much for her liking. Last friday though, I started feeling sick. When I got into bed, she came over and jumped in too. When I woke at 5, I was convinced that I had strep throat, it hurt so bad. She was still there (sleeping on my chest, in fact. Something else totally unheard of). When I woke again later that day, I hurt too much and was too fatigued to get out of bed until after 12, and she had stayed until I got out.
In other news, I may make it to Germany this summer. My friend Chelsea is popping in for the summer to visit family, and offered me a spot along with. Too good an opportunity to pass up. So now, I'm saving every dime that I can, because to go to school in september and go to Germany for a month in the summer is going to cost me harshly. However, getting my feet wet with traveling in this manner, with staying with a friend at her families, means more to me then money can. If I have to, I'll get a very small student loan to cover for SAIT. The other wicked part of this is another friend is going on a eurotrip, and plans to see Germany and Italy as well. I imagine the three of us are going to meet up in the two countries to explore together.
In other news, I've found out something about myself and my writing. When I was of a younger age, I wrote alot, and loved it with a passion. Word flowed freely and I was never at a loss for ideas. There came a point where I hit a writers block, and it never really lifted. I have since tried going back to writing, but everytime I do, I'll get a few pages, at most, before giving up. It's like the words don't flow anymore, the creative river has dried. And yet, still from time to time, the instinct; the wish to write appears yet again. So, some time ago, I did a little soul searching, dug deeper and found out why it's so hard to write like I used to.
When I make charactors, start putting up a situation, watch them struggle through it, I find myself thinking, "Who the fuck cares?". It's like a general apathy; I've read stuff that has me totally absorbed, where the charactors are real and where I am in their world. I've tried doing the same thing, and realize that anyone else reading it really wouldn't give two shits about the dillema, the charactors, any of it. The scary thing is, sometimes I find, I don't even care about what is going on. Consequently, my charactors become one dimmensional, wooden shadows of what they have been or could be. The problems they face just don't matter anymore. I lose all the connection to the story, the fire burns itself out, and the words stop flowing.
I sit back and think about the last time I read a short story, and was totally taken in by it. It's been a long time. Too long. But I think it holds the key to beating this apathy. Because, underneath it all, that desire to write still burns, my abilities remain intact, and the creative juice still flows. I know that, I can feel it, I just need to reach it.
In other news, I may make it to Germany this summer. My friend Chelsea is popping in for the summer to visit family, and offered me a spot along with. Too good an opportunity to pass up. So now, I'm saving every dime that I can, because to go to school in september and go to Germany for a month in the summer is going to cost me harshly. However, getting my feet wet with traveling in this manner, with staying with a friend at her families, means more to me then money can. If I have to, I'll get a very small student loan to cover for SAIT. The other wicked part of this is another friend is going on a eurotrip, and plans to see Germany and Italy as well. I imagine the three of us are going to meet up in the two countries to explore together.
In other news, I've found out something about myself and my writing. When I was of a younger age, I wrote alot, and loved it with a passion. Word flowed freely and I was never at a loss for ideas. There came a point where I hit a writers block, and it never really lifted. I have since tried going back to writing, but everytime I do, I'll get a few pages, at most, before giving up. It's like the words don't flow anymore, the creative river has dried. And yet, still from time to time, the instinct; the wish to write appears yet again. So, some time ago, I did a little soul searching, dug deeper and found out why it's so hard to write like I used to.
When I make charactors, start putting up a situation, watch them struggle through it, I find myself thinking, "Who the fuck cares?". It's like a general apathy; I've read stuff that has me totally absorbed, where the charactors are real and where I am in their world. I've tried doing the same thing, and realize that anyone else reading it really wouldn't give two shits about the dillema, the charactors, any of it. The scary thing is, sometimes I find, I don't even care about what is going on. Consequently, my charactors become one dimmensional, wooden shadows of what they have been or could be. The problems they face just don't matter anymore. I lose all the connection to the story, the fire burns itself out, and the words stop flowing.
I sit back and think about the last time I read a short story, and was totally taken in by it. It's been a long time. Too long. But I think it holds the key to beating this apathy. Because, underneath it all, that desire to write still burns, my abilities remain intact, and the creative juice still flows. I know that, I can feel it, I just need to reach it.