(no subject)
There ought to be a name for the very specific sense of existensial dread you get when you're working on a scene you've been working on for the past two months with your male L.I., blissfully slapping on adverbs and whatnot as he goes on being miserable and traumatized and devilishly mysterious only to stop dead, your heart in your mouth, your thoughts ticking like a bomb timer counting down-
Wait.... This is- He's-
WAIT.
Am I, you realize with horrifying slowness, writing Edward Cullen?
In other words, I should not be allowed to write dialogue. Or romance. Or anything ever.
Uggggghhhhhh. DELETING EVERYTHING.
Wait.... This is- He's-
WAIT.
Am I, you realize with horrifying slowness, writing Edward Cullen?
In other words, I should not be allowed to write dialogue. Or romance. Or anything ever.
Uggggghhhhhh. DELETING EVERYTHING.