fuck it
I'm up and can't sleep because I've got writers block. The stumbling block at this point is that I really have to write either about Hohenheim's meeting with the Freemasons or Boris Nightingale's vision quest in the desert, and I really don't feel up to writing either one, and I don't have any other ideas for any other part of the narrative. I really hope I don't end up having to take another extra couple of weeks off because I'm really enjoying writing this.
At this rate I should have no trouble getting a shitload of words out of it. I'm writing in a large hardback 2005 diary, and I started my story on Janurary 8, and I'm up to Feburary 3, and nothing's happened yet, except Boris has gone missing, and most of the central characters of the first part have been introduced. Various things are poised. I guess the other problem is that about now I really have to start fleshing out the global situation, and I really don't have much of an idea about how to handle that. I'm interested in keeping things local to Armpit, but at the same time everything will fall flat if I don't acknowledge the spectre of Buck Spade... I mean, there's the Grand Orient to deal with, there's the Templar, there's the Pope and the Knights of Malta, the secret facilities and the shadow government, nevermind the Magick Lodges... but at this point I'm just writing about crazy stereotypes acting out a cliched movie in a parody which is parodying *itself*...
I recall I comment I read in a review about The Residents in which someone said of their music: "Ha ha ha... they're not serious, are they?" Well they are, and so am I. Serious about my ridiculous narrative!
I've just been reading a fantasy book, and am a bit disgusted to see that it's written in a similar style to mine. I can see why Pynchon spends so much time writing his books. His first drafts probably look like these too - just he spends the next couple of years running the bastards through a dictionary and encyclopaedia.
And I hope that sometime in my life, I feel as though I am writing direct channelled 100% horseshit free beautiful *truth*. This is the goal.
At this rate I should have no trouble getting a shitload of words out of it. I'm writing in a large hardback 2005 diary, and I started my story on Janurary 8, and I'm up to Feburary 3, and nothing's happened yet, except Boris has gone missing, and most of the central characters of the first part have been introduced. Various things are poised. I guess the other problem is that about now I really have to start fleshing out the global situation, and I really don't have much of an idea about how to handle that. I'm interested in keeping things local to Armpit, but at the same time everything will fall flat if I don't acknowledge the spectre of Buck Spade... I mean, there's the Grand Orient to deal with, there's the Templar, there's the Pope and the Knights of Malta, the secret facilities and the shadow government, nevermind the Magick Lodges... but at this point I'm just writing about crazy stereotypes acting out a cliched movie in a parody which is parodying *itself*...
I recall I comment I read in a review about The Residents in which someone said of their music: "Ha ha ha... they're not serious, are they?" Well they are, and so am I. Serious about my ridiculous narrative!
I've just been reading a fantasy book, and am a bit disgusted to see that it's written in a similar style to mine. I can see why Pynchon spends so much time writing his books. His first drafts probably look like these too - just he spends the next couple of years running the bastards through a dictionary and encyclopaedia.
And I hope that sometime in my life, I feel as though I am writing direct channelled 100% horseshit free beautiful *truth*. This is the goal.