(no subject)
How can you write about what you don't know?
And when you don't know anything, how can you write at all?
Do you make up fantasy worlds set with fantasy rules that you, their god, dictate at your whim? Do you base your writings on your narrow observations, writing about home, school, your 9-5, your meagre lovelife?
Do you read about others and borrow from their stories, a thread here, a hair there, until you've woven a Frankenstein to call your own?
Or do you have adventures, and become so caught up, so in love with your own youth and beauty, that you forget to write at all?
Some of us sit hunched over, our laptops propped on upturned, folded legs, the battery scalding the fatty inner thighs as we curse and type and occasionally get distracted by Twitters, and cellphones, and blogs. Our stomachs rumble and we warm up microwave burritos and hunch back over, juggling hot laptops and hot food.
I can't wait for inspiration to strike any longer. That bird has flow, but I'm not bereft. Unlike Caroline, I can weave together words and fashion nets for banshees, I have baited the traps and now lie in wait, my eyes glowing like dying embers, waiting for the right sentences to fall into my snare. Excuses have strangled my inner voice, so I must raise a new one.
And when you don't know anything, how can you write at all?
Do you make up fantasy worlds set with fantasy rules that you, their god, dictate at your whim? Do you base your writings on your narrow observations, writing about home, school, your 9-5, your meagre lovelife?
Do you read about others and borrow from their stories, a thread here, a hair there, until you've woven a Frankenstein to call your own?
Or do you have adventures, and become so caught up, so in love with your own youth and beauty, that you forget to write at all?
Some of us sit hunched over, our laptops propped on upturned, folded legs, the battery scalding the fatty inner thighs as we curse and type and occasionally get distracted by Twitters, and cellphones, and blogs. Our stomachs rumble and we warm up microwave burritos and hunch back over, juggling hot laptops and hot food.
I can't wait for inspiration to strike any longer. That bird has flow, but I'm not bereft. Unlike Caroline, I can weave together words and fashion nets for banshees, I have baited the traps and now lie in wait, my eyes glowing like dying embers, waiting for the right sentences to fall into my snare. Excuses have strangled my inner voice, so I must raise a new one.