In which Della overanalyzes the creative process.
I want to write.
I want to write about real life with a fantasy twist. I want to write a story about a man and a woman and the Eris Effect and the Nachtgeisten. I want to write about jade eyes flecked with gold. I want to write about Njord and Skadi, about Michael and Miranda. I want to write about Eyes Ahead and Patchwork and Antwan. I want to write about love songs, the wind howling through mountains, the crystal rush of adrenaline when I ski, the thunderclap of airbags, the smell of gunpowder.
I feel so inspired. I have so many conversations and voices and echos and visuals... (an unlabled CD holding the true name of God)... That when I sit down to type it all comes out in a mess of words and phrases.
I blame it on a specific pair of jade eyes. I honestly feel at home when I go to his house, and I've only been there twice. That I miss him is to be expected. He haunts my thoughts and there he turns into Michael who turns into Jordan who turns into Njord who turns to Skadi and says "My wife, you are beautiful as a glacial lake, but I cannot live here." And Skadi turns into Kathy who turns into Miranda who becomes my mind and I stare at a blank scrap of paper and fill it with words that, for a brief moment, resonate like church bells in my head before they are folded up, stuffed into my purse, and forgotten. A week later I fish them out and throw them away without looking at what I wrote.
But still. I'm haunted by story. By words. I have such things to say, such stories I can tell. I can feel them all stirring, I can feel them all wanting to be released.
I love it.
I don't know why I haven't done it. Why haven't I released Miranda and Rachel out onto the unsuspecting world? I managed it with Eyes Ahead. I managed it with Nerulnine and with Liral.
But Liral I hated. I couldn't get into her head, she was too foreign and her world was too bland for all its flashy display. Nerulnine was written for a love that had blown its petals long before; an unfaithful muse. And Eyes Ahead, my precious Eyes Ahead... she was stillborn.
I released them all before I knew how to finish a story, how to tell it from beginning to end, how to keep the middle from dragging on until it died. Eyes had the best chance of them all, but I can't bring her to life now that she's gone.
My unnamed heroines and heros, my Rachel and Miranda... they're out there. They've got a chance. But I can't let them out yet. I know I'd lose focus...
...like I just did.
I've now written my fill for the evening. My hands are tired on the keyboard and I have a bit of a headache. My muse has come and gone and left me exhausted and wanting. I have nothing more to say. Even if I did it would come out sounding stilted and forced.
So I'm just going to go to sleep.
I want to write about real life with a fantasy twist. I want to write a story about a man and a woman and the Eris Effect and the Nachtgeisten. I want to write about jade eyes flecked with gold. I want to write about Njord and Skadi, about Michael and Miranda. I want to write about Eyes Ahead and Patchwork and Antwan. I want to write about love songs, the wind howling through mountains, the crystal rush of adrenaline when I ski, the thunderclap of airbags, the smell of gunpowder.
I feel so inspired. I have so many conversations and voices and echos and visuals... (an unlabled CD holding the true name of God)... That when I sit down to type it all comes out in a mess of words and phrases.
I blame it on a specific pair of jade eyes. I honestly feel at home when I go to his house, and I've only been there twice. That I miss him is to be expected. He haunts my thoughts and there he turns into Michael who turns into Jordan who turns into Njord who turns to Skadi and says "My wife, you are beautiful as a glacial lake, but I cannot live here." And Skadi turns into Kathy who turns into Miranda who becomes my mind and I stare at a blank scrap of paper and fill it with words that, for a brief moment, resonate like church bells in my head before they are folded up, stuffed into my purse, and forgotten. A week later I fish them out and throw them away without looking at what I wrote.
But still. I'm haunted by story. By words. I have such things to say, such stories I can tell. I can feel them all stirring, I can feel them all wanting to be released.
I love it.
I don't know why I haven't done it. Why haven't I released Miranda and Rachel out onto the unsuspecting world? I managed it with Eyes Ahead. I managed it with Nerulnine and with Liral.
But Liral I hated. I couldn't get into her head, she was too foreign and her world was too bland for all its flashy display. Nerulnine was written for a love that had blown its petals long before; an unfaithful muse. And Eyes Ahead, my precious Eyes Ahead... she was stillborn.
I released them all before I knew how to finish a story, how to tell it from beginning to end, how to keep the middle from dragging on until it died. Eyes had the best chance of them all, but I can't bring her to life now that she's gone.
My unnamed heroines and heros, my Rachel and Miranda... they're out there. They've got a chance. But I can't let them out yet. I know I'd lose focus...
...like I just did.
I've now written my fill for the evening. My hands are tired on the keyboard and I have a bit of a headache. My muse has come and gone and left me exhausted and wanting. I have nothing more to say. Even if I did it would come out sounding stilted and forced.
So I'm just going to go to sleep.