writing eats your soul
My "Writing Life Stories" class is currently kicking my ass. It's much easier to write thousands of words if it's fiction -- if it's fiction, I know where exactly where one piece of story ends and another begins. With my own life, I feel like I'm spewing gallons of unnecessary detail and cutesy anecdotes straight onto the page. Poor page. I should really use a "delete" key on that.
I need to write more poetry after this; poetry affords just the right amount of distance and allows me to remain a bit vague. It doesn't make me feel like I'm puking up my life for the benefit of others. (What, melodramatic? ME?)
On a less "frustrated writer" note, I've been told twice in the past week -- both times by people I greatly admire -- that I have an excellent grasp on the semi-colon. "You actually know how to use them!" said one person. Of course, now I'm double-and-triple-checking all my semi-colon usage, because I no longer trust my instincts.
Ahaha. Okay, I'm done. Dinner now. After dinner, I'm going to drink lots of coffee and get this hellish draft FINISHED. Hell yeah.
I need to write more poetry after this; poetry affords just the right amount of distance and allows me to remain a bit vague. It doesn't make me feel like I'm puking up my life for the benefit of others. (What, melodramatic? ME?)
On a less "frustrated writer" note, I've been told twice in the past week -- both times by people I greatly admire -- that I have an excellent grasp on the semi-colon. "You actually know how to use them!" said one person. Of course, now I'm double-and-triple-checking all my semi-colon usage, because I no longer trust my instincts.
Ahaha. Okay, I'm done. Dinner now. After dinner, I'm going to drink lots of coffee and get this hellish draft FINISHED. Hell yeah.