Superglue, size 9s, or psychotherapy?
It's kind of scary; lately, I don't know that I want to write.
Considering that I've written over a thousand pages of fiction in the last four years, call it easily a quarter of a million words, that's... unnerving.
But then, so is the stuff I'm typing lately. When I find myself writing a poem about Lucifer weaving his word-nets for souls as a relief from the story I'd just finished -- that's no little frightening. When I can see how a character justifies playing with forces that he literally can't control because the ends justify his means... that scares me too. This is what I write instead of finishing any of the 30+ Works in Progress in my active files, several of which are cheerful?!?
On the other hand, I'm good at this. I think so; some of the people whose opinions I respect think so. And I still have stuff I want to say, things I want to try and do with my writing. That helps. So does the fact that I get awfully grumpy if I'm not writing. Maybe I'm just freaked about the process? No one told me before I wrote Sirocco that I could give myself nightmares. That story was worth them, though. So... maybe the others are, too?
I guess it's time to superglue myself to the chair, kick myself and my muses in the ass, dive in, and turn out some copy. I have to live in my own head. It would be a damn shame to be afraid of the place -- right? It's not all dark. I do know that. Some days, though....
::sigh:: Hell, maybe it's just the antibiotics and antihistamines. Gods know they're screwing with my appetite. Maybe they're screwing with my mood, too. Swear to Freya, the damn antidote is almost as bad as the poison....
Right. Off to curl up with a warm, cuddly husband and sleep. It'll all look better in the morning and I'll find something to write. Kastagir maybe. Kastagir and Farrell maybe. Slash for the sake of slash. Or maybe I'll finish that mad scientist pay fic so I can go get my mind exorcised and disinfected. Something. Anything.
'Cause something has to give, and it's damned well not going to be me.
Considering that I've written over a thousand pages of fiction in the last four years, call it easily a quarter of a million words, that's... unnerving.
But then, so is the stuff I'm typing lately. When I find myself writing a poem about Lucifer weaving his word-nets for souls as a relief from the story I'd just finished -- that's no little frightening. When I can see how a character justifies playing with forces that he literally can't control because the ends justify his means... that scares me too. This is what I write instead of finishing any of the 30+ Works in Progress in my active files, several of which are cheerful?!?
On the other hand, I'm good at this. I think so; some of the people whose opinions I respect think so. And I still have stuff I want to say, things I want to try and do with my writing. That helps. So does the fact that I get awfully grumpy if I'm not writing. Maybe I'm just freaked about the process? No one told me before I wrote Sirocco that I could give myself nightmares. That story was worth them, though. So... maybe the others are, too?
I guess it's time to superglue myself to the chair, kick myself and my muses in the ass, dive in, and turn out some copy. I have to live in my own head. It would be a damn shame to be afraid of the place -- right? It's not all dark. I do know that. Some days, though....
::sigh:: Hell, maybe it's just the antibiotics and antihistamines. Gods know they're screwing with my appetite. Maybe they're screwing with my mood, too. Swear to Freya, the damn antidote is almost as bad as the poison....
Right. Off to curl up with a warm, cuddly husband and sleep. It'll all look better in the morning and I'll find something to write. Kastagir maybe. Kastagir and Farrell maybe. Slash for the sake of slash. Or maybe I'll finish that mad scientist pay fic so I can go get my mind exorcised and disinfected. Something. Anything.
'Cause something has to give, and it's damned well not going to be me.