Blogging Meme: Part 1.
In response to this from the Blogging Challenge Meme.
Less than two hours until I head down to meet Len mienai_hoshi. I haven't called my Tita Inday yet, I need to do that before we walk (yes, walk, no taxi rides today unless Len says otherwise) to my aunt's office. I hope she brought the gift today, they refuse to tell me exactly what it is. I bet it's makeup. Maybe. Oh self, why so female. Lol.
Its funny how I'm reevaluating the way I think about writing. I used to think in terms of productivity, I still do sometimes, because it's always nice to look back at the end of the day, right before I bury my face in my pillow to sleep, and think: I wrote a lot. That's good. That's very, very good.
Farah asked how I manage to write fiction so fast. The caps on that last word make me smile and wonder if I really do just speed on by with words as if they're there and then I stick them on the virtual page.
But to answer truthfully, I don't... know? I'm not even sure if half of the things I write can be considered decent fiction since some of them are more commentaries on life, snatches of things I've seen and imagines, stuff that I may and may not have done than actual stories with something to say.
I tell myslef sometimes, pretty words, that's all they are. I fail at plot and tend to focus on character. They are anecdotes from one life or another. But I'm not answering the question.
I love to write. Need to, some of the time, because there's so much going on in my memory warehouse (that's from Stephen King's Dreamcatcher by the way, not mine), so many reams of paper and boxes filled with knickknacks from here and there that I need to either clear out things, but them on this journal or that one, the one in my bag or else it's the furnace for it all - and I hate that.
I think it helps that I type ridiculously fast for something who never learned how to type properly. I used to cheat in computer class, peer down at the keyboard despite my blindfold and my paper bag. Sounds archaic? I know, it kind of does, but it was fun and makes for an interesting image. Typing blind. If only my teacher knew.
Back to the question.
I like telling stories. I love making them up, expanding on some random truth like the way I know driving fast on the highway in January makes my ears complain about the cold. I have a house in my head, it is strange-looking with more than enough rooms to fit all the characters I can and cannot write for, would like to write for, today, tomorrow, someday.
I just write. And, um. There's really not much to do when there's no work to be had.
Less than two hours until I head down to meet Len mienai_hoshi. I haven't called my Tita Inday yet, I need to do that before we walk (yes, walk, no taxi rides today unless Len says otherwise) to my aunt's office. I hope she brought the gift today, they refuse to tell me exactly what it is. I bet it's makeup. Maybe. Oh self, why so female. Lol.
Its funny how I'm reevaluating the way I think about writing. I used to think in terms of productivity, I still do sometimes, because it's always nice to look back at the end of the day, right before I bury my face in my pillow to sleep, and think: I wrote a lot. That's good. That's very, very good.
Farah asked how I manage to write fiction so fast. The caps on that last word make me smile and wonder if I really do just speed on by with words as if they're there and then I stick them on the virtual page.
But to answer truthfully, I don't... know? I'm not even sure if half of the things I write can be considered decent fiction since some of them are more commentaries on life, snatches of things I've seen and imagines, stuff that I may and may not have done than actual stories with something to say.
I tell myslef sometimes, pretty words, that's all they are. I fail at plot and tend to focus on character. They are anecdotes from one life or another. But I'm not answering the question.
I love to write. Need to, some of the time, because there's so much going on in my memory warehouse (that's from Stephen King's Dreamcatcher by the way, not mine), so many reams of paper and boxes filled with knickknacks from here and there that I need to either clear out things, but them on this journal or that one, the one in my bag or else it's the furnace for it all - and I hate that.
I think it helps that I type ridiculously fast for something who never learned how to type properly. I used to cheat in computer class, peer down at the keyboard despite my blindfold and my paper bag. Sounds archaic? I know, it kind of does, but it was fun and makes for an interesting image. Typing blind. If only my teacher knew.
Back to the question.
I like telling stories. I love making them up, expanding on some random truth like the way I know driving fast on the highway in January makes my ears complain about the cold. I have a house in my head, it is strange-looking with more than enough rooms to fit all the characters I can and cannot write for, would like to write for, today, tomorrow, someday.
I just write. And, um. There's really not much to do when there's no work to be had.