Free flowing sludge
Why is it that my mind flies so much faster than my fingers on this keyboard? Why is it so difficult for me to spit out the images in my head? I get hit with the writing bug once or twice a year, where I feel l could write a novel if only I had the stamina to keep up with the energy flowing through my brain.
I've tried to harness this several times, but get about 20 pages into something, fall asleep exhausted, and wake up somewhat less inspired. I write a lot of short stories and poems, but something larger than an appetizer awaits my screen. I've even thought about getting a voice program so I could dictate into the box, bypassing the whole mind-to- hand translation. But it wouldn't be the same. I'm going to write a novel or screenplay before I die. I swear it.
A scene of two young neighbors, in farm country, meet up late one night as the heat lightning flashes across the sky. And through some dramatic circumstance they learn to rely upon each other for support, gradually falling deeply and passionately in love. As only young, unpracticed lovers can, they burn quickly and look back through the obstacles they over came with fondness...separating as their lives lead them into full-blown adulthood.
A woman returns home to care for her ailing father, and to heal her wounded pride. She runs into an acquaintance from her time growing up. He is handsome and a pain in the ass, but he helps her to realize her roots are small town and there is nothing wrong with that.
A man runs half way across a vast, twisted and scorched landscape, pursued by the antagonist army and their great flying beasts. He seeks to warn, and gain aid for the one left behind. The hot and thirsty pursuit ends when his limp and beaten body is picked up by those who will give him aid, but it will start a war like no other. It will break the vows of a neutral faction and release a havoc that once tore apart every nation on the plane from which they came from. LIfe as they know it will never be the same, magics seen by no living person, will burst and rend the countryside, possibly causing more destruction than they attempt to prevent.
These are just some of the things that pass through my head. I want so much to see at least one of them grow and develop into a whole unit. A page a day is all it would take, and in a year or so I'd be done. I want to tell stories, I want to share them with others, but I'm so self-conscience about it that it's difficult to even find the privacy to write the bits that I do.
In fact, I just yelled at my husband for spying over my shoulder after I asked him not to. Now, I feel like a shit. I'm sorry, Brad. But the mindset is gone. I can only think of what he must be thinking now and can't feel motivated to concentrate. UGH.
Well, I'm going to pull one of those stories up and leave it on my desktop. Then when I come down tomorrow, it'll be the first thing I look at. Hopefully I can recapture the thoughts that were forming.
I've tried to harness this several times, but get about 20 pages into something, fall asleep exhausted, and wake up somewhat less inspired. I write a lot of short stories and poems, but something larger than an appetizer awaits my screen. I've even thought about getting a voice program so I could dictate into the box, bypassing the whole mind-to- hand translation. But it wouldn't be the same. I'm going to write a novel or screenplay before I die. I swear it.
A scene of two young neighbors, in farm country, meet up late one night as the heat lightning flashes across the sky. And through some dramatic circumstance they learn to rely upon each other for support, gradually falling deeply and passionately in love. As only young, unpracticed lovers can, they burn quickly and look back through the obstacles they over came with fondness...separating as their lives lead them into full-blown adulthood.
A woman returns home to care for her ailing father, and to heal her wounded pride. She runs into an acquaintance from her time growing up. He is handsome and a pain in the ass, but he helps her to realize her roots are small town and there is nothing wrong with that.
A man runs half way across a vast, twisted and scorched landscape, pursued by the antagonist army and their great flying beasts. He seeks to warn, and gain aid for the one left behind. The hot and thirsty pursuit ends when his limp and beaten body is picked up by those who will give him aid, but it will start a war like no other. It will break the vows of a neutral faction and release a havoc that once tore apart every nation on the plane from which they came from. LIfe as they know it will never be the same, magics seen by no living person, will burst and rend the countryside, possibly causing more destruction than they attempt to prevent.
These are just some of the things that pass through my head. I want so much to see at least one of them grow and develop into a whole unit. A page a day is all it would take, and in a year or so I'd be done. I want to tell stories, I want to share them with others, but I'm so self-conscience about it that it's difficult to even find the privacy to write the bits that I do.
In fact, I just yelled at my husband for spying over my shoulder after I asked him not to. Now, I feel like a shit. I'm sorry, Brad. But the mindset is gone. I can only think of what he must be thinking now and can't feel motivated to concentrate. UGH.
Well, I'm going to pull one of those stories up and leave it on my desktop. Then when I come down tomorrow, it'll be the first thing I look at. Hopefully I can recapture the thoughts that were forming.