(no subject)
Words seldom pour from my pen anymore. It seems words and phrases prefer staying cozy in my head to being encased in a notebook these days.
Occasionally a random sketch turns into a strange collection of figures (usually flowers, teeth, catlike or snakelike creatures or inhuman humans) mirroring the words that aren't tangible.
Most often my hands take to the insturments in the other room.
I've made fair progress from my days of power chord cacophony and off-key ditties on the tonk piano at Sunflower House, but there must've been a trade in this, for I cannot write like I used to.
I can write something, and finish it, on occasion. Maybe a story or two each year, a short story or two, that is. Except for Junior In A Jar (second draft is finished, by the way) and That Blackness Up Ahead, I don't write from deep inside much. Instead silly humor based on real-life events have preoccupied my time and, because of their superficial nature, if they aren't finished in a day or two and short to the point, the inspiration leaves and it sits untouched for months, until my computer contracts a virus (*sigh* it's so slutty, just can't stick with one network!) or something equally disasterous-yet-appropriate occurs.
I'm half tempted to go through the entires of the past two years archived here and tally up how many posts I've made whining about this now well-known fact.
How do I reach back in time and pluck the drive/ability/talent/imagination that churned out story after story, including an anthology, I wrote between the ages of eight and fifteen?
My first guess is a typewriter is needed. I learned on a typewriter, I wrote my first stories on one (the rest in pencil, then onto the word processor from there). A few months ago I went with Griffin and Patrick to one of Griffin's friend's house. This guy had an old manual typewriter sitting around, and he said I could play with it. I was lost in a world all of my own creation, typing on that near-broke thing, writing what turned out to be a poem. It all flowed so naturally, the way it never does on the computer, or even with my pen. What IS it about the typewriter that I love so dearly, aside from silly sentimental yearnings?
It wouldn't be so bothersome if I could actually find a working manual typewriter at a thrift store.
Perhaps I should go with the suggestion Megan had back when we still lived in Omaha; that I should write history books, only putting the characters' language into modern slang and writing it totally MiShelle style (with proper documentations, naturally). Besides, the issue isn't that I can't write so much as it's I can't write anything substantial. I can, if I feel inclined, manipulate language into something slightly more interesting than it normally would be (you're getting pretentious in your older age, Shellie), I do it on occasion when I explain daily activities when I'm in that kind of mood on here, and I've helped a couple of people write papers. Painting with words is the most rewarding when the end result is innovative, interesting, or meaningful and yours (mine).
I'm frustrated about it today in particular because a friend of mine told me there are websites that will publish everything and let you have all the creative control, and put it out in book form. I don't care if I don't publish anything else, there's one thing I want to publish, but I need more material than five pages.
Occasionally a random sketch turns into a strange collection of figures (usually flowers, teeth, catlike or snakelike creatures or inhuman humans) mirroring the words that aren't tangible.
Most often my hands take to the insturments in the other room.
I've made fair progress from my days of power chord cacophony and off-key ditties on the tonk piano at Sunflower House, but there must've been a trade in this, for I cannot write like I used to.
I can write something, and finish it, on occasion. Maybe a story or two each year, a short story or two, that is. Except for Junior In A Jar (second draft is finished, by the way) and That Blackness Up Ahead, I don't write from deep inside much. Instead silly humor based on real-life events have preoccupied my time and, because of their superficial nature, if they aren't finished in a day or two and short to the point, the inspiration leaves and it sits untouched for months, until my computer contracts a virus (*sigh* it's so slutty, just can't stick with one network!) or something equally disasterous-yet-appropriate occurs.
I'm half tempted to go through the entires of the past two years archived here and tally up how many posts I've made whining about this now well-known fact.
How do I reach back in time and pluck the drive/ability/talent/imagination that churned out story after story, including an anthology, I wrote between the ages of eight and fifteen?
My first guess is a typewriter is needed. I learned on a typewriter, I wrote my first stories on one (the rest in pencil, then onto the word processor from there). A few months ago I went with Griffin and Patrick to one of Griffin's friend's house. This guy had an old manual typewriter sitting around, and he said I could play with it. I was lost in a world all of my own creation, typing on that near-broke thing, writing what turned out to be a poem. It all flowed so naturally, the way it never does on the computer, or even with my pen. What IS it about the typewriter that I love so dearly, aside from silly sentimental yearnings?
It wouldn't be so bothersome if I could actually find a working manual typewriter at a thrift store.
Perhaps I should go with the suggestion Megan had back when we still lived in Omaha; that I should write history books, only putting the characters' language into modern slang and writing it totally MiShelle style (with proper documentations, naturally). Besides, the issue isn't that I can't write so much as it's I can't write anything substantial. I can, if I feel inclined, manipulate language into something slightly more interesting than it normally would be (you're getting pretentious in your older age, Shellie), I do it on occasion when I explain daily activities when I'm in that kind of mood on here, and I've helped a couple of people write papers. Painting with words is the most rewarding when the end result is innovative, interesting, or meaningful and yours (mine).
I'm frustrated about it today in particular because a friend of mine told me there are websites that will publish everything and let you have all the creative control, and put it out in book form. I don't care if I don't publish anything else, there's one thing I want to publish, but I need more material than five pages.