Feeling a bit off
This happens to me every now and then (actually, more often than not.)
I love words. I love the narrative flow of a well written story, the magic of a description that makes me see something from the author's point of view, a new idea made real to me, a character whose life I can live--for a while. I love nonfiction, especially the kind that lifts me into new and strange worlds and ideas, challenges and delights and scares me. Good writing is the closest thing to real mindreading humanity has (source of my slightly goofy obsession with same, perhaps?) I have the personality type that is seriously prone to addiction, and the (perhaps) good fortune to have discovered that propensity early enough, via lip balm and books at age 8, and so was able to studiously avoid the other traditional addictive substances.
Fortunately for me, I suppose, I process alcohol weirdly and go straight to hangover (not much chance for addiction there) and gambling is really really boring if you have a solid grasp of probability theory. Either that, or I just haven't become addicted to anything else because there's just not enough narrative content.
For a few weeks, I will write like crazy, often neglecting other responsibilities, until suddenly I decide I shouldn't. I must not write anymore. Ever again. Because I'm not any good at it. Because what I am writing is not of sufficient value even if I were good at it. Because I am addicted to the production and consumption of narrative to the point that I cannot be trusted. Because if I cannot earn money by writing, then it is not valuable. Because everything I write is a window into my presumably diseased soul and says something terrible about me. (Yeah, my tame fluffy adventure stuff mea
And I decide I must stop writing, and reading, and watching TV, and using the internet, (except as required so that my family does not notice--because they must never ever notice self-denial) and doing anything that is not directly related to work or taking care of my family.
I am very close to that point right now. The guilt fairy has touched me with her poisoned wand and I see Mary Sues everywhere, I cringe at every typo, I squirm at the slightest setback. I am, at this very moment, actually physically nauseous. I wonder if anyone else feels that way, ever.
I am the first to admit that I am a nutbar who needs therapy if I could afford it, but right now I am just going to vent.
So anyway, my apologies to those people who have friended me in hopes of seeing Who fanfic and were subjected to whining instead.
Prairie
I love words. I love the narrative flow of a well written story, the magic of a description that makes me see something from the author's point of view, a new idea made real to me, a character whose life I can live--for a while. I love nonfiction, especially the kind that lifts me into new and strange worlds and ideas, challenges and delights and scares me. Good writing is the closest thing to real mindreading humanity has (source of my slightly goofy obsession with same, perhaps?) I have the personality type that is seriously prone to addiction, and the (perhaps) good fortune to have discovered that propensity early enough, via lip balm and books at age 8, and so was able to studiously avoid the other traditional addictive substances.
Fortunately for me, I suppose, I process alcohol weirdly and go straight to hangover (not much chance for addiction there) and gambling is really really boring if you have a solid grasp of probability theory. Either that, or I just haven't become addicted to anything else because there's just not enough narrative content.
For a few weeks, I will write like crazy, often neglecting other responsibilities, until suddenly I decide I shouldn't. I must not write anymore. Ever again. Because I'm not any good at it. Because what I am writing is not of sufficient value even if I were good at it. Because I am addicted to the production and consumption of narrative to the point that I cannot be trusted. Because if I cannot earn money by writing, then it is not valuable. Because everything I write is a window into my presumably diseased soul and says something terrible about me. (Yeah, my tame fluffy adventure stuff mea
And I decide I must stop writing, and reading, and watching TV, and using the internet, (except as required so that my family does not notice--because they must never ever notice self-denial) and doing anything that is not directly related to work or taking care of my family.
I am very close to that point right now. The guilt fairy has touched me with her poisoned wand and I see Mary Sues everywhere, I cringe at every typo, I squirm at the slightest setback. I am, at this very moment, actually physically nauseous. I wonder if anyone else feels that way, ever.
I am the first to admit that I am a nutbar who needs therapy if I could afford it, but right now I am just going to vent.
So anyway, my apologies to those people who have friended me in hopes of seeing Who fanfic and were subjected to whining instead.
Prairie