And Roused My Dreams Again
Well, this is interesting. Planning epic book series. Not epic in terms of how many books there will be, just in terms of story. It suits me, I think, to be a fantasy writer (not in an erotic way, though perhaps I'll have an erotic series of companion books to go along with it).
Just. Fucking. Stick with it.
On the plus side, part of this story has been in my mind for a year or more. And certain parts of it excite me so much that I just want to write it now. But, planning. Because there's so much planning to do. If I just start writing, I won't find the story, I'll get overwhelmed. So good to be planning, and researching, and out of my head, and out of my life.
My life is great, by the by. Something's missing though. Reminds me of the last page of Postcards From The Edge by Carrie Fisher. She writes to the ER doctor who pumped her stomach after she tried to kill herself, says something along the lines of "Do you remember, when you pumped my stomach, if I threw up anything I shouldn't have? Some crucial or important part that belongs inside? I feel distinctly as though I'm missing something. But then, I always have." or something like that. Not to be dramatic or anything.
Going to go visit mum in the ridge in a couple of weeks, spend a week or more, connect with nature, have fuck all technology. I think I'll take my laptop, if only to write, and make a concentrated effort to expand my mind while I'm there.
I think though, being a tortured writer, is far more interesting than being a happy one. I don't even know what happiness is. Or, well, of course I know what it is. But I don't know what makes it happen, necessarily. What will make it happen. If I even want it. The thing about happiness is that life becomes a series of blissful moments, and everytime, I start to wonder how long it will last, and in wondering, stop being able to enjoy them.
Okay, I officially think too much. I need to turn all this into something creative, into my book series, which will be for young adults mostly, but everyone else too. If it's the only thing I do manage to accomplish, this lifetime.
Just. Fucking. Stick with it.
On the plus side, part of this story has been in my mind for a year or more. And certain parts of it excite me so much that I just want to write it now. But, planning. Because there's so much planning to do. If I just start writing, I won't find the story, I'll get overwhelmed. So good to be planning, and researching, and out of my head, and out of my life.
My life is great, by the by. Something's missing though. Reminds me of the last page of Postcards From The Edge by Carrie Fisher. She writes to the ER doctor who pumped her stomach after she tried to kill herself, says something along the lines of "Do you remember, when you pumped my stomach, if I threw up anything I shouldn't have? Some crucial or important part that belongs inside? I feel distinctly as though I'm missing something. But then, I always have." or something like that. Not to be dramatic or anything.
Going to go visit mum in the ridge in a couple of weeks, spend a week or more, connect with nature, have fuck all technology. I think I'll take my laptop, if only to write, and make a concentrated effort to expand my mind while I'm there.
I think though, being a tortured writer, is far more interesting than being a happy one. I don't even know what happiness is. Or, well, of course I know what it is. But I don't know what makes it happen, necessarily. What will make it happen. If I even want it. The thing about happiness is that life becomes a series of blissful moments, and everytime, I start to wonder how long it will last, and in wondering, stop being able to enjoy them.
Okay, I officially think too much. I need to turn all this into something creative, into my book series, which will be for young adults mostly, but everyone else too. If it's the only thing I do manage to accomplish, this lifetime.