[randomness] on writing and loving words;
There's this little thing I've been writing - purely self-indulgent fic which is not likely to see the light of day here on the interwebz, but I wanted to write down the thoughts and the satisfaction I feel in reading back the words I "penned down".
I haven't written much - not fic, not original fiction, not much of anything that doesn't feel like I'm bleeding water from a stone. And what I have, comes in starts and stops. While finishing a random chapter or a flash fiction piece has allowed me a lingering sense of productivity and accomplishment, I've had to scrabble to prolong the feeling, especially since the writing well seems so dry.
Today, I poked Bhex dreamlessness on chat and flailed about my inability to focus. And though I continuously assert that flailing-noey-is-not-cute, all she did was LOL before telling me that its normal, its acceptable and that there is a word for what I was doing: Goldfishing.
She called it fun. I wanted to beg to differ (laughing all the while, I do that a lot with B, apparently) because goldfishing is something that I've always been told is me not taking what I do seriously.
And then it put to mind some of the things that I actually discussed with Mom homesong over chat the other week.
I've been something of a dog with a bone when it comes to focusing and staying that way - especially in certain goals. Productivity has been the gauge by which I measure how well a day has gone, and it's taken awhile for me to see where I seem to be going awry with that.
Since the last gig I've been wondering the same thing about my music that's been plaguing my writing - Am I enjoying this? Am I doing this because I want to or because I feel compelled to? What the hell am I doing anyway?
The answers to those questions aren't - and don't come - easy. It still twinges to actually attempt to say them or write them down. These are my passions. One tends to feel a bit like a disappointment to the self when what should be excitement and love turn out to be a dumbfounding kind of resentment and the general feeling of not being good enough to really do them justice.
This is the part where I go soul-searching, so to speak. This is where that very brief conversation I had with Camry while we lounged around in the air-conditioned heaven of FB High Street comes... sort of... into play.
What is this that I love? Why do I do what I do? The sheer satisfaction of this ability to create. The gift of imagination (yes, cheesy, I know, hush, this is me writing for me). That ability to put something as abstract as an emotion or an idea, something as fleeting as a memory or moment, into something more concrete. If this takes shape in the form of something I can read or sing back to myself, is up to whatever I feel it might be best expressed as at that very moment.
So yes. Self-indulgent fic. Satisfying, an utter guilty-pleasure and something totally just for me. An affirmation of the self, if you will. A totally, shamelessly, conceited one at that. Hah.
There is this Gaelic word that I love: seanachais - storyteller. I used to call myself that. And I still want to (nevermind that I don't have a drop of Irish blood in me blahblahblah).
So I've been practicing nearly everyday over this last week. I come home (thank you, 6am shift), cool down from the commute, and then drag my keyboard across my bed to run through the five songs I intend to sing to whatever audience gathers at Mag:Net Katipunan this Saturday.
I am terrified (I don't think that will ever change), I have no idea what to wear to expect, but I do know that I am determined to give over to the music in the way that I have kept on saying I would, but never seem to do.
Reluctant dance partner, I may be. But definitely not chickenshit.
Okay. Now that's done. Where's my next ebook? *rummages through her folders*
I haven't written much - not fic, not original fiction, not much of anything that doesn't feel like I'm bleeding water from a stone. And what I have, comes in starts and stops. While finishing a random chapter or a flash fiction piece has allowed me a lingering sense of productivity and accomplishment, I've had to scrabble to prolong the feeling, especially since the writing well seems so dry.
Today, I poked Bhex dreamlessness on chat and flailed about my inability to focus. And though I continuously assert that flailing-noey-is-not-cute, all she did was LOL before telling me that its normal, its acceptable and that there is a word for what I was doing: Goldfishing.
She called it fun. I wanted to beg to differ (laughing all the while, I do that a lot with B, apparently) because goldfishing is something that I've always been told is me not taking what I do seriously.
And then it put to mind some of the things that I actually discussed with Mom homesong over chat the other week.
I've been something of a dog with a bone when it comes to focusing and staying that way - especially in certain goals. Productivity has been the gauge by which I measure how well a day has gone, and it's taken awhile for me to see where I seem to be going awry with that.
Since the last gig I've been wondering the same thing about my music that's been plaguing my writing - Am I enjoying this? Am I doing this because I want to or because I feel compelled to? What the hell am I doing anyway?
The answers to those questions aren't - and don't come - easy. It still twinges to actually attempt to say them or write them down. These are my passions. One tends to feel a bit like a disappointment to the self when what should be excitement and love turn out to be a dumbfounding kind of resentment and the general feeling of not being good enough to really do them justice.
This is the part where I go soul-searching, so to speak. This is where that very brief conversation I had with Camry while we lounged around in the air-conditioned heaven of FB High Street comes... sort of... into play.
What is this that I love? Why do I do what I do? The sheer satisfaction of this ability to create. The gift of imagination (yes, cheesy, I know, hush, this is me writing for me). That ability to put something as abstract as an emotion or an idea, something as fleeting as a memory or moment, into something more concrete. If this takes shape in the form of something I can read or sing back to myself, is up to whatever I feel it might be best expressed as at that very moment.
So yes. Self-indulgent fic. Satisfying, an utter guilty-pleasure and something totally just for me. An affirmation of the self, if you will. A totally, shamelessly, conceited one at that. Hah.
There is this Gaelic word that I love: seanachais - storyteller. I used to call myself that. And I still want to (nevermind that I don't have a drop of Irish blood in me blahblahblah).
So I've been practicing nearly everyday over this last week. I come home (thank you, 6am shift), cool down from the commute, and then drag my keyboard across my bed to run through the five songs I intend to sing to whatever audience gathers at Mag:Net Katipunan this Saturday.
I am terrified (I don't think that will ever change), I have no idea what to wear to expect, but I do know that I am determined to give over to the music in the way that I have kept on saying I would, but never seem to do.
Reluctant dance partner, I may be. But definitely not chickenshit.
Okay. Now that's done. Where's my next ebook? *rummages through her folders*